|
The Pacific
Words bloom tropic red on the highway, its divided dusk. Colours blur in the laden air. Promises of escape and latter years of softer winters; the exotic dumps Calypso Court, Hibiscus Lodge, and Ocean Vistas with no view of the sea.
Now snake through Tabbimoble, the lay-off forests, overflow of Brisbane-Sydney pouring back and forth. Bus-ghosts in the fields of red-tinged grass, ghosts in the overtaking lanes, in the switchbacks, the Taree bypass, ghosts in the Bundjalung names.
Smell of salt and big rivers and the world turning green, even in the dark.
|
|