All around me is horizon now,
This bleak landscape made desolate with an awareness of itself
Where pools of dark water have gathered in stillness
And stunted trees, like aged fingers,
Poke dark and loathsome at a wasted sky.
Hour after hour in this weary waste, until
The road that joins the desert to the sea
Makes headway into forest thick and green
And hour after silent hour
The winding highway snakes a path through bushland:
A crack upon the surface of a mould;
Scar tissue through a beard.
Having recently driven from Melbourne to Sydney via The Princes Highway, I felt compelled to represent (in some small measure) the beauty of the journey. It is an odd fact that beauty changes into isolation and despair under the weight of my pen…