Rabbits as flat as Lebanese bread
are as numerous as the potholes.
Scavengers gamble with rodeo bound traffic.
Ravens mob stalking foxes.
Drought stricken skies
and Mistletoe drained Grey Boxes
are painted on murky remnants of dams.
Cows wade in,
to guzzle cool, sediment rich water.
The Jackie Dragons are as still
as the grey lichen dappled shale.
If the sun baked creek beds could speak,
they’d scream for rain.
On the hillside,
the audio water boarding
of a chainsaw and brush cutter orchestra ceases.
Purple Haze melds with the horizon,
as forest regenerators lop African Olive and Privet Saplings.
Has the Antarctic Aurora
ever matched visions conjured
by Hendrix’s Fender Stratocaster feats?
If the crew could paint what they see,
they’d be psychedelic Rembrandts.
As Purple Haze fades,
Miles Davis’ sublime rendition of Nature Boy
emerges from dusty silence.
Horns signal a premature ending.
It’s forty in the shade,
ice water is liquid paradise,
flavour as superfluous as overcoats.
As the convoy of utes departs,
clay swarms like locusts.
The Yowie sighs impatiently,
as a heat drunk newbie
makes locking gates look as difficult as surgery.
It fades from this universe,
as a tourist infested hot air balloon
Eventually it re-emerges,
with its crystal plated guitar.
The instrument finally consents
to a melodious massage.
“This one’s called the Raptor’s Descent”
the Yowie informs the ravens
with a telepathic montage.
Wedge Tailed Eagles zoom from the blue,
to perch on the Yowie’s burly shoulders,
as its labyrinthine chords coalesce into guitar gold.
The waves in the ocean,
where Hendrix’s spirit surfs,
mirror the rhythm.
His reply comes as naturally as breathing once did.
And so the duel begins.