THE BUSH TRACK NORTH

The bush track north still calls
with its endless gibber plains
and bull-dust,
punctuated by the occasional ridge
of red sand hills,
or a dry creek bed,
or rock outcrop,
or a desert mountain range,
thousands of years old
from before human habitation.

I’ve known and loved
the inland desert country
all my life it seems,
though interspersed
with periods of
rural and urban living.

For some time now,
I’ve said the age of eighty
would be my last bush trip.
This was to have been the year,
but plans change.
“Covid” has intervened
with closed state borders
and travel restrictions.

I was preparing “Henry”,
my trusted off-road vehicle,
for the opening of state borders,
when a brain seizure occurred,
from an invasive melanoma.
Successful neurosurgery
and now other treatment
has followed.
I am blessed, still here,
treasuring every moment
of the life that I have left.

“Henry” has a new owner,
who has fallen in love with him.
He will still go bush,
but no more bush travel for me;
(no driving at all for some months, if ever).
The bush track north must ripen to
a rich and treasured memory.