Hermidale: a poem

Martin Hanley writes.

The faint sounds of familiar voices, a short phone call from home.

There’s something about the dark red dust and the crimson lit sky.

A burrowed look from gazing in the sun all day,

Tumbling locks of brown hair tucked under a cap/ 

Your body is a collection of sweat, dust and sunburn,

But you’ve done a hard day’s worth of work; that content feeling,

Washed down with a cold brew of Great Northern:

A golden liquid that carries away your worries for the night.

 The frivolous bullshit of the city fades away,

recollections of meaningless nights at work,

a slurry of memories, a slurry of concrete you poured this afternoon.

Incessant beeps from internet applications,

The anxiety fuelled checking of messages and mindlessly scrolling the feed.

Out here there’s none of that.

Ignorance really is bliss.

This is real,

This is tangible,

This is where you came from,

The very ground on which you stand,

You wander, like the thousands of tribes that have walked these lands….

Herds of sheep and bales of hay.

The sun has set.

You turn in for tea.

The Australian cockey lives to see another day.