In the desert I searched for gold,
fried in the summer heat,
marvelled at the spring wildflowers
and learnt about flat tyres,
evaporating energy,
temperamental trail bikes,
sinking axle-deep in fine mud –
those were the good old days,
being paid to explore the bush
a time when work was fun,
the office just wide open space,
the distant horizon.
In winter the eastern wind blew
removing the pleasures;
those idle lunches in the shade
of faded mulga trees;
those pleasant strolls on samples lines,
a king of the landscape
presiding over nothing but
perfect isolation
under an infinite blue sky
in an ancient country
where quiet places echo with
the passing sands of time.