The days are getting shorter in light; it’s just going 5 O’clock.
Driving out to Chinchilla, three short hours from Brisbane, and I’m struck by the desolation — the flatness, dryness and spareness of the land. How does anything grow out here? How do farmers survive? Despite this, the rustic beauty of the land is apparent.
We live in a stark country — a place with many faces, many emotions, many looks. Most of the homesteads we past are rusted. The fields are in there resting season after being worked hard. I feel a sense of isolation — it’s both terrifying and thrilling.
Out here everything has a name — a purpose. Each homestead has heritage. Each town has a foundation which was built in years gone by.
The memories live on, in pieces, but in plain sight.
The sun is setting now, pushing the land into shadow. The land doesn’t resist sleep — it willingly falls into slumber after a hard day in the pointed sun. So the flat land stays flat. No surprises. No anxiety. Nothing phases this stout land. It’s as old as the hills, probably older.
The land slumbers in peace knowing that as one day slips away, so another day will give rise to fresh opportunities.