Blue
blinding skies leaping out to the horizon.
The
only canon for my survival.
What
beautiful weather we have here
as I
rotate 360 and another trip round.
Look
on the earth the rubble and the ruins,
The
brittle bricks all broken and burnt by the sunny sun
Which
we all celebrate on the run.
The
mistaken romantic imagery of a ghost town,
in
the outbound back of beyond.
 |
| Kanowna. Image from tripadvisor.ie |
Once
a thriving gold mining hub,
All
I see is a mockery of the song.
Of
the cult-ur-al iden-ti-ty,
Of
man’s proud virility.
Sharred,
weathered, dulled chunks of glass
Hinting
at the lively jostling past.
The
old beer bottles of an era gone full throttle.
I
can barely make out a footprint of a single old brick building.
The
golden era given the mystery of theatre
Becomes
lost on the irritable teenager
Standing
disconnected by their folks’ vehicle,
One
hundred years removed.
The
distance though,
The
empty significance flows,
Whipping
silently across my face and legs.
Sharp
icy winds encircle me and push at me,
Stumbling
across the broken, crumbled artefacts,
Stretching between me and time. © Nathalie Sallegren