Towards the Nullabor
Highway drafted across
wide brown landscape
a drawing line
shimmering graphite grey
into the west,
explorers footsteps.
Cool breeze in my hair,
and the motor sings its
highway song.
I am the soul of the van.
We glide past gargantuan
harvesters and headers,
they have no soul.
Up ahead in the distance
shimmering water
never there.
A lonely isolated service centre,
a frontier outpost.
Was it there before?
Does it really exist
amongst the twisted
denuded blackbutt branches
dry reaching for the sky?
I am surrounded in semiology.
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