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.