Driving on hill tops, the landscape is generous – unfiltered mapwork filling up the thirsty eye. This evening the horizon is thickly sponged – dark cloud bruises, gleaming chrome sky, the felt silhouette of mountains and, in the foreground, rolling khaki with wave-crest fences.
At a fork, I’m sent on a detour. Here the buildings stand close to the road like cliffs, red bricks providing finger holds for safety from the human torrent below. Rusted iron takes up the patina of the earlier paddocks. An old service station leans into its concrete pad unannounced by price signs or branding. Urban nostalgia is block printed and full of lines.
And then there’s a park and summer-fat trees line the road. Galahs sift to the grass like pink autumn. Looking forward, a contused mass of sky is swooped by the glistening white footprints of a flock of cockatoos.
“Money!” sings Pink Floyd. “It’s a crime!” I settle in for the highway.
cadavers of progress pale against a concrete sky "money... it's a crime."
Written for Frank Tassone’s dVerse Haibun prompt “Cold Mountain”… almost. 🙂