The Overland

 

A snowflake flutters to earth,

Making its own path.

It dances with millions of others,

In a waltz with nature.

 

It lays itself down,

In the lush forest carpet.

Silent, like a dream,

Not a bad place to die.

 

Cathedral Mountain is brooding,

Rocky spikes like fingers to the sky.

The sun casts off the mist,

Before retreating behind the veil.

 

The boardwalks bounce in the marsh,

Meandering through button grass meadows.

Designed by Indigenous engineers,

With 40,000 years of fire.

 

We sneak through hidden fern valleys,

And whisper in the enchanted woods.

Impossibly green mossy glens.

Swallow our banter.

 

We traipse mountain plateaus,

Of shale and stunted fauna.

Wind blows the frost off beanies,

Heads down to the sleet.

 

Brooks bubble where tracks had been,

Frigid water against hot toes.

The warmth of a trail hut,

Held up, not standing.

 

Hands cup steaming coffee,

Smiles of tired endurance.

The wild country stirs,

She will have her way.

 

Snow hangs on the branches,

Placed there by the pixies.

They work at night,

So morning is a sneak peek at heaven.

 

We emerge from the wilderness,

Vandals of sorts.

Bent and aching and cheerful,

Cleansed of modernity.

 

 

 

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