Blossoms

With a sense of despair, I had watched the brilliant green of Adelaide turn to teal as I drove.  Teal paled to steel grey.  And as I travelled further, grey became brown.  Less than 200kms from Adelaide, and the transformation was complete.  I had passed the Murray twice along the way.  Its pathetic snaking wanders a forlorn path against the backdrop of steep banks that betray its former glory.

The town is Waikerie, east along the Sturt Highway.  As I turn off the main drag, I follow a road that bends significantly to the right.  A naked field gives way to one covered in these delicate flowers.  It is mid-September and for this orchard, it is time to bloom.  The ground upon which they have ignited is barren and dusty.  So dry and desiccated, I am taken aback by this profusion of colour. 

Drought is only partly to blame.  Farming, and lots of it, has also stolen away the lifeblood of this mighty river and destroyed its majesty.  It might seem a little odd that the brilliant pink of cherry blossoms reminds me of the abuse of our waterways.  But in their own way, they also inspire hope.  Life can return when given the opportunity.

Temporary Legacy

This photo always brings two things to the forefront of my mind.

The first is a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. In it, he describes the impermanence of human impact over time. While I do not possess his lyricism, I have certainly been granted the opportunity to see and capture my own version of this sentiment.

In the wet tropics, I have seen smooth sheets of concrete stolen by moss and vinery within a decade of it being laid. My hands have run across roughly-hewn timbers, worn smooth and thin by the eroding sands of blistered deserts. Amidst the frozen wastes of polar regions, I have witnessed the decay that comes with wind and changing ice.

In every instance, the legacies of human impact are slowly resumed by nature. Shelters are broken and then destroyed. Tools rust and crumble. Holes fill with vegetation and soil, until the scars they cover, heal. There is no forever.

The other item of which I am reminded is the image of a boot print left by early astronauts on the surface of the moon. Unlike that impression, this footstep will last less than a day. The next tide will wipe clean the sand and shell grit that has captured this history. When I took this image on the shoreline of Tannum Sands, I remember wondering who had made it. I was curious to know who had left me such a carefully crafted mark, no matter how accidental.

It is only now that I am prepared to speculate. It could have only been one man. Ozymandias.

Once Each Year

After Quilpie, there is only one town before the turn-off to Birdsville. For most of the year it is little more than a fuel stop but on the Wednesday before the Birdsville Races, it comes to life. Taking advantage of the traffic heading west, the residents of Windorah host their annual Yabbie Races.

Caravans and four-wheel drives arrive in a steady stream all day and it doesn’t take long for the servo to grow a lengthy queue. Camping sites quickly fill and travellers are forced to drive their tent pegs into the baked bulldust of the showground when there is nowhere else to go.


The pub overflows with thirsty folk, and by the time darkness descends, they are sprawled across the lawn and into the street. The locals have blocked the road at both ends, and moved two small bleachers to either side of a painted ring in its centre.


“Righto!” A shout to no one in particular. People mill around the racing circle, bidding for the right to own a blue-claw for the event. The money they raise is for the local school. It is their one chance each year to fund-raise. And then the yabbies race.


With cheers and laughter, cash changes hands. Spirits soar and it is clear that there are no losers here.


Revellers continue well into the night, drinking cold beer and feasting on freshly made steak sandwiches. It is a typical outback event: friendly, understated and fun.

The Storm

Lathered in sweat, he rolls and attempts to kick his way free of the sheet that has tangled in his restlessness.  Eyes closed in the dark, he is oppressed by the stifling summer heat and the stench of stale electricity.  The whirr of worn bearings in a slowing turning ceiling fan does little to calm him.

Opening his mouth to release a frustrated groan, his lament is cut short by a flicker of light.  Louder is a deep-throated rumble.  Doors and windows rattle.  And then there are indistinguishable voices.  Fear steals over him.

Has someone broken in?  Is there more than one voice?  Wide-eyed, he stares at the open doorway.  Unaccustomed to the night, he sees only shadows pass the framework.  They pause briefly to peer in the darkness at him.  He dares not move.

Bright lights flash outside the window.  Loud rumbling.  Is that the sound of furniture moving?  More voices.  What is going on?  Terror consumes him.  Crashing.
No, this is my home.  How dare they!  The indignant thinking of the desperate.  I will prevail.  He throws off the last of his covers.  Panting in the humidity, he catches his breath and squints away his fear.

He runs around the wooden foot of his bed and into the corridor.  Turning, he spies a silhouette and sprints toward it.  He leaps from the three steps that separate bedrooms and living area.  The shadow turns in surprise.

It catches him mid-flight and wrestles him easily into a bear hug.  The shadow smells familiar.  Confusion.  “What’s up, little man?” the stranger softly asks.  More lights.  Thundering.  He whimpers.  “Sshh!  It’s just a storm, son.  It will be over soon.”  He snuggles further into the broad shoulder of his captor, suddenly relieved of his panic.  And then he hears the slowly increasing tempo of rain against tin.