Graphite underscore drawn hard across desert,
Along the rule of palefaced men pencilling
In a way they thought people should travel,
Definitive grey line in the sand. For
Tarmac’s the black mark civilisation
Makes when imposing upon chaotic
Wilderness slithering just beyond, through
Parched bush, over seared and desiccated
Yellowstone grit persisting mile on mile,
Either side of this narrow highway, out
To forbidding red mountains, severe slopes
So loosely strewn with boulders a tremor
Of the heart might bring them cascading down,
Overwhelming those unfortunate souls
Driving by, sound systems rocking, windows
Wound down, elbows jutting, looking ahead
Towards no particular place, passing by
Aboriginals with reservations
About their land divided and returned
In part, as a gift from their patrons,
Unsettled by settlers who brought the wheel
And then broke them on it. Adolescence,
That gauche hackneyed acned rebellion,
Erupted along this road well travelled,
These days, by the silver haired and balding,
Hot rodding along in purring hatchbacks,
Having cruised, it seems, from zits to liver spots,
Looking for kicks in comfort-fit jeans
And shades which are tinted spectacles: there’s
A few more miles yet before their final reservation,
With bored teenagers in the backseat
For now, wondering just what gran and gramps
See in all this, what are they looking for?
While the road goes on and on through neon
Nostalgia of Seligman and Williams,
Barely a curve or turning it seems.
So, look ahead and keep on cruising, don’t
Glance too often in the rear view mirror
Where sand is gathering on the shoulders
Of this thin highway to soon sweep over
From both sides to centre line; dust to dust.
