The Buzz

He said:

"You were buzzing last night.

I could feel you vibrating."

I knew what he was talking about.

The atoms of my body had been thrust,

Through thousands of kilometres,

At a hundred kilometres an hour,

Driving.

The tyres of my car dragged against the bitumen,

Their vibration travelled through my seat,

Into spine and the marrow of each of my bones.

The cochlea of my ears endured the hours of banshee screaming,

Of air scraping against the cars exterior,

As high pitched as a fluorescent light.

Drone, drone, drone,

Ever rhythmic, the motor's base,

Coming into my feet on the floor,

And my hands on the steering wheel.

I had been a human tuning fork.

And now free from vehicular prison,

I rang out.

The long and Winding Road

I count eight hundred and fifty seven,
The number of bends in the road,
The long and winding road,
To your door.
I pass two National Parks
Errinundra and Snowy River,
And two scenic reserves,
Martins Ck and The Gap,
On the long and winding road,
To your door.
Two hamlets,
Goongerah and Bendoc,
And two locations,
Martin and Sardine creeks.
Rise a thousand metres in elevation,
Snow flakes gently descend like feathers.
Pass three animal carcasses,
Possum, wallaby and wombat,
Narrowly avoid creating another- kangaroo,
Two rock falls,
A giant boulder straddles the median strip,
Of the long and winding road,
To your door.
I listen to, then lose three radio station signals,
All 'Aunty',
Radio National and ABC Gippsland,
Drink one five hundred ml bottle of water,
"Yuck!" Town water,
And eat one gluten free nut bar,
Dropping honey covered crumbs,
As I drive the long and winding road,
To your door.
Several times I angonised about something I said,
And regretted,
But mainly my thoughts flew to you,
And our snug warm bed,
As I returned home,
Along the long and winding road,
To our door.

Wombats

"Boonk, Boonk!"
Is the sound of a wombat,
Going under my car.
In the clear frosty evenings,
You must be especially on guard.
Last night the moon was full.

First it was a fleet footed fox,
That crossed my path;
Fleet footed enough.
I slow to a crawl knowing,
The plantation will come up on my left.

And on cue the king of the macropods bounds out.
The kangaroo slips on the icy surface,
Rises, hops into the streaming light of my headlights,
It comes again, and slips again.
But I have seen it in plenty of time.
I stop, it clears the fence,
And lives to see another frosty night.

Resuming my slow journey,
I curse the carnage of the 'plantation zone.'
I pass mouldering carcass after carcass.
Nearing home I am calmer,
But.....
I see it, yet there is no avoiding the collision.

"Boonk, Boonk!"

Sun - a song composed after three weeks of wet weather on a very long drive.

Too many days I've felt the grey.
I need some sun
To banish it away.

A sky of blue,
And time with you
I need some sun
to get me through

And I want to run barefoot in soft green grass
I want to feel the wind in my hair 
I want to tramp for miles and miles with you by my side
And sleep out in the open air.

But still it rains for days and days
I need some sun
to kill off this disdain

And I want to climb a mountain and yell from the top.
I want to rise up with the dawn.
I want to chatter to you babe till you make me stop.
We'll build a fire to keep us warm.

And I want to look out on a starry night.
I want see the moon in your face.
And I want to feel your heart beating next to mine.
And feel the warmth of your embrace.

When I drive I keep my mind active by writing songs in my head. I sing the lines over and over until I memorise them. Then when I get to my destination I have to record the song before life's busy-ness takes it from me. I do not know if it is the drone of the motor or the rhythm of the tyres on the road surface that inspires, but this is just  how song writing happens for me.

The Stick

As I drive down the hill towards town,
The river attracts my attention.
No matter the conglomeration of thoughts,
Mercantile or familial,
Their colour or mood, filling my mind,
The slow pace of the water,
The harmonising rhythm of the overhanging willows, seduces my eyes.
I am drawn to dreaming of  boating down its course
And picnicking on the sandbar on a curving bend.
We are now parallel and I am rising to a panoramic view.
Ahead in the distance there is a fisherman in waders
He is in the water, close to the bank.
Closer inspection as we approach reveals,
The same stick,
Whose image has tricked my brain tens of times.
 

Driving to Mallacoota

Early start travelling East,
Sun-blinding sunrise.
Dodge the last marsupial stragglers,
Off for their diurnal siestas.
Mist sits low in the valleys,
As I skirt the escarpment,
and descend.
It is winding now,
Curves tightening.
On a straight I pass a freight truck.
I feel the adrenalin rush.
Clear now my pulse gradually slows.
The last leg's tourist traffic,
Grey nomads perched high in 4wds,
Manoeuvering heavy caravans.
Slow to Forty for road works,
smile and wave to the workman.

On Top of the World

Driving across the Monaro,
I feel like I'm on top of the world.
Scant paddocks of senescing trees and tussock grasses,
Unseasonal  green.
Yet in the distance,
Cloud shrouded mountains.
I peek down over the edge at them.
Wind sweeping emphasises height
And I watch
A long row of turbines on a ridge-top.
Slowly turning.
Not quite in unison.
To my right
A pair of wedgetails circle each other,
In a sensuous dance with the up-drafts.
They appear so close out of my car window.
Yet I know the valley falls away below them.

Long and Winding Road

Car travel,
Long repeated journeys,
Over remembered corrugations.
Pot holes and blind corners,
Wildlife hot spots.

The car filled with detritus of unemployed children:
Wrappers, hair ties, odd socks, empty water bottles and discarded toys.
Chorus from the backseat:
"What town is this?
Are we stopping here?"

Your mind wanders,
As do your eyes into a stranger's life.
Till a close call with oncoming traffic,
Draws your attention abruptly back.

You think through the day,
Your week, your life.
Re-run or plan discussions in your head.
You try to keep your eyes focused,
Ignore their drooping fatigue.

Prolonged travelling,
This is the tiring reality,
Of those who choose to live in the bush.