Monday, 20 May 2013

Home is where the hearth is

Does my bird crash and burn or, exhausted, return to roost?

My parents drove over vast distances, so my knowledge of country came early from the back seat of our car. There was a tale my mother told me of curdled milk when all the shops in all the towns were closed. Parents driving home all through the night along the coast road from Geelong, not able to stop for fear of waking the thirsty howling infant.

Later, I viewed crumbling cottages from the back seat; no windows, gardens or sign of human life. THAT'S where I want to live, in walls of crumbling stone. I'll build a fire, mend a roof, grow a garden; cows, ducks, horses, sheep and chooks.

Now here at my hearth side, surrounded by neighs, baas, clucks, quacks, woofs and miaows, I want to fly the coop once more. Just give me the patience to make strong wings, made not of wax but feather, wire and sushi fish, so I can fly free, dancing over my apocryphal hills, knowing the ones I love are happy there without me and will wait for my return.


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