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.
"Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind."