Earlier this six foot track was justa pamphlet and now I am walkingon the dashes between “d” and “f”on the Land’s Department map. Loose stones under my feet, the suncolouring the grey-green hillsideyellow as I walk where once,two men moved ahead with awheelbarrow, pick and shovelkeeping the way clear for me to track their slow retreating formsall the way to the Cox’s River.
Now in the afternoon light it isa chocolate box painting of pinksand, white rocks that seemstill wet from the artist’s brush.Perhaps he remains here, sittingby the scrub near the next hill.I applaud his work but needto walk across the stream and touchthe rocks to find them wet and hardnot shimmering in a haze of perpetuity.
The river, the hills, GibraltarSugarloaf stretch about me, an allencompassing canvas of one person’sevocation. But I can’t find the wayacross such a slippery stream whereeven the pines are losing their hold,roots revealed, gnarled after yearsof gentle undermining. Two sheepare stranded on moss, standing firmon their small island in the middleof the river, looking as lost as I feelin the past, the recondite and reality.
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