Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind.
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In the time of modern desert stories
new nomads follow their wanderlust along a line of flashing mirrors cut by cunning in the dust. The hard and shining metal landscape of the bushy gibber plains reveals a stony glint after the recent washing rain. And in the desert garden beds where tough creatures make their home is a pretty picture painted on rusty reds that stand strong against the great blue dome. All the madness of modern man in this so-called empty space is revealed in shadows on the ground which hide an evil face. At ground zero the soil is littered with a black slag, glass-like and evil looking. I didn’t touch anything except with my boots. Left the area via Observation Hill where the British nobs stood and witnessed the fading glory of the Empire. In some fly-ridden, godforsaken, empty land no doubt. Fools be they. Lunch at the airstrip and then on to camp in a lovely red sandy glade amongst the desert plants and animals.
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May 2017
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