Rachael Mead # 2, Making camp - Flinders Ranges

Making camp - Flinders Ranges

I don’t know many things more full of grace

than the tumbled stones of this creek bed,

a mosaic of weather and time, pressure

and release, all washed with light. Simple 

yet intense. Our steps chime with ancient tones.

We clear the scat scatter of yellow-footed

rock wallabies, so much more nimble

than their name stumbling across our lips.

As dark falls we are drawn to the campfire,

goose-bumps piling with the memory of fur.

Celestial navigation tells us that home is here

by the fire under sky. Glow-faced, we shine

like heavenly bodies.  We eat a dinner rich

with wildness and watch centuries combust

under bright-cold light as old as the stones.

All night the tent chatters in the wind

while euros scrape our dishes clean.

We wake to the ranges broken open

with all that was lost to us in the dark - 

this is a world made by volcanoes.