Thank you Quantas for bringing me to this continent, to this place called Oz.
Somehow I’ve landed on sacred ground.
I’ve brought too many clothes-some for hot dry days
and some for cool star-filled nights.
There’s one old yellow shirt with pockets,
to hold unforeseen treasures from daily walks:
an ochre nodule
a basalt blade
a blue and grey feather.
There is now a drawing in my journal,
of a small yellow woman, adorned with fine red painted lines,
falling from the sky, toward a mysterious form,
rich brown, outlined white-
an egg, a world, a beginning, a cellular dream.
I’ve sat before this rock altar for an unmarked hour or two.
The engraved skin marks on the stone have morphed onto my skin.
The yellow woman has entered my quiet mind.