we grow used to our prison



the travellers have arrived home

full of stories and red dust from the centre

the grandeur of bluffs and canyons

the big black eagles sharing  roadkill with the crows

 cold nights  hot days 

and the hideous  racism of Alice Springs.


another world away from this wet forest,

the four walls now enclose these hardened biker campers

the beds soft and comfortable.


we grow used to our prison

to our level of comfort 

to our ordered universe

to surety and pots of tea on the verandah

with cake and Kingston antics.


I see the stars when I venture forth for a wee

I spy the tawny frogmouth perched on a dead wattle branch 

when I walk further

to feel the forest nightness.


then I come back to  the fire dancing in our hearth

 the murmur of spanish lessons on the couch

 the soft strings of a guitar plucked

a snore from another chair

a rustle of bush rat running off with the soap again.


I pick up the crochet hook and choose another ball of wool

weaving a memory blanket  

to warm a bed or a person .



I came from a world of inside 

shielded by my culture from the elements

innured to the hard ground 

and the vastness of space.


when we camp we are reminded 

of our place within the hugeness

 feeling the rocks under our bedroll

smelling the ants crushed underneath

the dust and grit in our eyes

and if we are so fortunate

an opening of awareness 

lends a heightened clarity to all our senses.


but then we come home 

to our hearth

and enjoy the hugs 

the bed the cake.





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