Cathedral Gorge, Bungle Bungles
Size matters, impressive formations, impressive skin, rock torn and rubbed.
A golden skink waits for me to make the first move, the water is still too,
evaporating silently, such a natural cathedral deserves respect, but I belt out
‘The Hills are alive . . .’ to hear it all over again. Wyn’s reached the end
under that mass of rock, sketch pad in hand, maybe not be big enough,
an after-image of bright red sunslammed rock is mirrored clearly.
A Pacific Heron acts as sentinel watching us leave too soon
past tall grey funnels constructed by the termite armies.
I’m wrestling with thirst, looking up at the edges of rock and sky.