A place. An anchor. Somewhere that feels like somewhere, the
kind of somewhere my spirit needs to be.
It smells like gentle wattles in an early Spring.
It feels like liberty to plan and to see out dreams that
have steered a short lifetime.
It sounds like magpie song on moonlit nights and soft
munching sounds of beasts.
It looks like the green, brown and blue hues of all that is
important to support living and breathing. It looks over the solid unchanging
of ancient land mass and eternal sea.
It tastes of spicy eucalypt on frosty mornings, or of
brackish creek water on a Summer’s day, promised after tasks have been
completed and patience tested by small human spirits. It’s the taste they know,
the taste that helps them grow.
Trials endured because of hopes that have lured.
A place. An anchor. Somewhere that feels like the kind of
somewhere our spirits needs to be.
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