It was taboo travelling time,
Between dusk and dawn,
Not late at night,
Or too early in the morn’
While way out West,
Where gold fields are dry,
And country lights twinkle,
In Vincent’s Starry shy.
Pine needle trees scorched,
Dried and fried,
Stand as brittle bones,
On the road side.
Yet trees of green,
Heat defiant and true,
Stand solitary in the fields,
Where the withered crops grew,
And barbed wire rust,
Hemmed in the scene,
Outside my car window view,
To see any kind of green.
So I could only dream,
Of journey’s darkened night,
Travelling way out west,
On the lonely highway by moonlight.
Out West
When I was a researcher with a University, we had to travel to remote areas of New South Wales to interview people. We were not alllowed to travel between Dusk and Dawn because of driver fatigue regulations by the university.