What the Englishman hears as I speak…
We travelled across the seven seas to a red island at the very bottom of the globe. The journey lasted one full day where we lived on rations and didn’t sleep. The plane curved as we passed over the Orient landing on the earth’s underwards.
And there we fell, on terra australis, the sun’s face so close to the island’s surface it cracked the clay’s tough skin. After dipping our toes in raw red dirt, we spent the first few suns immersed in cool water, exploring the under world of green and light.
And then we ate. In fact we ate all the time as the food on the island was magically fresh and organic. And the natives wandered out of their beds in to coffee houses at the same time the sun arose so mothers and suns could have breakfast together. We ate poached eggs – they are warm and gooey and wonderful. Then when we finished our eggs, we ate grains with dates and kale with almonds and sweet peaches and warm mushrooms and banana bread. We continued eating, in cafes and in the garden, steaming meats and green lentils and salty vegemite on sourdough and white cloud-like cheeses. We ate until our kangaroo pouches were so full that all we could do was fall deeply into books and papers, the weight of our stomachs carrying us deeper and deeper in to the pages.
We drank black liquid gold. Everywhere we went the saints of de clieu charged our veins so we could climb trees and then fade into an ecstasy slumber beneath a southern cross.
We went on adventures across the red earth to green vineyards – drank sweet wine and ogled bright colours on canvas.
We drove along the water to deserted back beaches where we swam, surfed and sailed. Where we ventured deep in to the hills and bathed in hot springs – floating on sunsets and steam. We drove with new and old friends to lie in gardens surrounded by gum trees and wattle.
We rode bicycles and cooked sweet spices for the elders. We took big strides on wide lanes and whispered whilst the island kept quiet. And we rolled around in space.
Our shoulders darkened, our cheeks went pink and tiny, cheeky freckles bounced on our skin. We were one of them. We were part of the island. Every eve we bent our knees and jumped as high as we could, pulling the earth with our feet so the sun was left behind.
Then we sat on rooftops and watched films light up and fade as the city went to sleep. This island sleeps.
And then, as all adventures do, we reached an end.
Nine generations planted their claws in to the ground and with their hearts they waved goodbye. We boarded the plane, once again, back to Old Lon. Tears rolling down our noses washing the freckles away.
We flew over the lights, slid down Big Ben and landed with a thump in our thickest bluest socks, far away from the ground.
And now, my friend, the snow falls… and the earth is gone.
Image credit: Kathryn Sprigg
