The road
near Barcaldine,
where the trees are tall and ancient—
older than fences,
certainly older than bitumen.
I thought of what the trees bear witness to.
Saw my mum
when she was young,
driving this road.
It would have been dirt back then,
and very long.
I heard her gently singing songs.
She had two sons,
red dust in their hair,
playing eye spy.
Back then.
Back there.
She wouldn’t have known
how fast it all goes,
how quickly boys
become men,
how the road becomes
a ribbon of remembering.
But these aren’t my memories.
And hers had flown
by the end.
Driving somewhere
especially long,
we come back to ourselves—
to the home we belong.
And all the thoughts that drift,
and all the thoughts that subside,
drift out the window
and blow outside.
I wonder what Mum was thinking
when she would drive.
I think of her
a lot.
#poetry/travelling
Note: Mum and Dad lived in Winton when they were first married and my two eldest brothers were born there. No aircon, a big simple house and dust storms . Mum driving all those same 2000km if not more to go where she was going, visit family – on dirt roads with two little boys. She was amazing.
beautiful piece Kate – i pictured it all vividly. Mike
Thanks Mike – remembering is a solo road internally and externally, I’m so glad I was able to help you squeeze into a seat for minute 💕
An honor to read your tender tribute. Thank you for sharing, Kate. 🌻
“how the road becomes / a ribbon of remembering”
Thanks Michele – I’m glad you enjoyed the poem 💞
You’re so welcome. 💕 A beautiful piece. 🌷
A great drive
for the mind
to drift out
on a once dirt road
rich with personal memory
and the dust clouds of history *
still settling o’er this land.
~
Thanks for sharing this evocative piece, Kate; “older than bitumen”.
DD
* Barcaldine
1891
Shearers’ Strike
Barcaldine is rich with history David. All these old towns are, the red dirt stains corrugated iron and asbestos sides show age, but the trees – just before you come into town from the east are big old Box and it got me to thinking of what they have seen, who they have seen. We are just a blip in the screen and that is a big part I think, of why I love nature. And one day we just join it.
A beautifully written dedication filled with poignancy ♥️
Thanks Yassy 💕
You are very welcome, Kate. Can you start an email at aurumpoetess99@gmail.com
I like that phrase ‘we come back to ourselves’. I don’t think of mum — or dad —much; I keep in contact with my sister. I see her on Mondays at the nursing home. She seems settled in there now —
Ourself is the most important person to come back to John. I think when we return to that deep connection we are truly home.
yes, I understand —
What a beautiful poem.
Thankyou Martha 💕
So poignant. Made me tear up 😘🥺 lovely post. Loved this, Kate ♥️