It would be fifty degrees Celsius standing here on the black soil at two
in the afternoon. I walk a few metres to the lighter clay spread out
some two hundred metres or more with round hard silica stones polished
by a glacier in the last ice age. The sun unshielded by the thinning
ozone layer turns my white skin crimson red. I get in the Land Rover and
drive a few kilometres south to the black basalt dyke with broken lumps
of heavy rock in the middle of the paddock. To the west as far as my eye
can see is a thin line of dirty green on the horizon. To the east blue
mountains once an active volcanic range. Back at the homestead the air
is still. My skin is simmering crimson hot. A black snake wriggles
quickly across the hot ground and into the fish pond garden hunting
green frogs. I pour myself a rum and coke and sit quietly sipping in the
shade of a garden bush. Late spring and the ants are busy collecting
food anticipating a flood to break the drought. I smoke a joint and
pour myself another rum and coke, waiting for nightfall. The first signs
of heatstroke begin.
--
Chris Jones <[log in to unmask]>
|