Ethereal clouds at sunset

I am sitting on the porch waiting. The verandah is formed from rustic beams splintering in every direction. Carved jagged jarrah beams form a barrier of curved edges above me. The derelict concrete step seems comfortable compared to my surroundings.

There is no rain to be seen and the air is dry and still. Looking down at the barren earth beneath me the mixture of fine dust and coarse sand seems like turmeric blowing in the breeze; wasted without a recipe. I drag my finger in the red dirt and gaze up transfixed on the beautiful sunset over the distant horizon.

The richness of colour is mesmerising.

The seat beside me is vacant. My feet rest on the cracked concrete steps that have stood the test of time. My memories of the house I grew up in flood back to me as I shut my eyes. The sounds of laughter fill the air as children play in the heat of the day.

I can recall stumbling on each step as the heat of summer was upon me. Getting inside into the cool was high on my agenda so I would hurriedly try to hop, step and jump up the stairs onto the dusty veranda. Typically I would find myself tumbling and falling short of the distant door. Thud! I had landed face first on the verandah. The concrete stairs had seen a many-stubbed toe or two. It is only now after all my years of growth I can run a fleeting jump above the hazard that lay before me. Success!

My mind was reminiscing as the echo of ice, clinking in a cold glass filled my mind. The classic sound of my summer childhood. The sticky lemonade spilled from the edges of my mouth. A fulfilling grin appeared on my face. Chuckling, I was amused at how the small things in life somehow seemed to be the best memories.

For some reason I remember the house from my childhood as a windowless building.  I didn’t really take in my surroundings back then but now as I gaze into the broken window I noticed the reflection of a tall long limbed tree standing steadfast in the middle of the paddock. Memories flooded back. I remember hours would pass as I spent my childhood in that tree. My fort, cubby and swing all rolled into one. It was my place for exploring my imagination. So what happened to my imagination?  Where was it now?

What would it mean for me to get up and walk over to that special place? Would I feel the same youthful glee? Leaving the comfort of abandoned home the very place my mind I had grown accustom to? The familiarity of my house where I calved every wooden beam and known every step. How could I get up and walk to the tree that seemed to give youthful life in the barrenness that was my surrounds.

How could I see what my life could be when I hadn’t even leaved home? Would I be able to imagine again? Would I be able to imagine this? Is this even real?


Until Next Time – Happy Shooting!


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