Coral Hull: Poetry: The Secret Horses Of Peterborough: 27. Dawn Activity At Glendambo Roadhouse

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: THE SECRET HORSES OF PETERBOROUGH
27. DAWN ACTIVITY AT GLENDAMBO ROADHOUSE

car tyres turning slowly across gravel, a pink and purple sunrise, the black crows dawn, the shower block, women with blow-dryers and toothbrush holders, shower caps, conversation about what's on the road ahead, the best place to stop for lunch or set up camp, price of fuel, the reptile and snake show at the local hotel, footsteps on gravel, back to the cosy wonky insides of overnight caravans from the seventies and newer models for the rich or the retired, hot toast with sticky, melted margarine, tahini and strawberry jam, winter food, the chrome kettle boiling like an absolute downpour, packing, the person in charge, the lifting, slotting in, connecting things up, lifting trunks and cases onto roof racks, spreading the crackly sheet, securing it with orange rope that doesn't fall into knots, but it's hard on the fingers, the slamming of car and caravan doors, if you own an EH Holden like ours you've got to slam a bit harder, this begins the whirr of a roadhouse coming to life, the children, the cash register, the tinkle of cutlery at the restaurants for those with the money for an eat in breakfast, the stars fade out as white paint will fade into blue, a fox changes the direction of its nose and scoots off into the bush, these places are little hives of activity, at night they are welcome oasis's, they appear big fluorescent and clean when you first drive in, they are bright beacons from miles of dark roads, where the only thing you see is the silvery green glow of your hands at the wheel from the dash, one lingering orange cloud melting down in the north west and whatever the headlights throw light upon, a kangaroo and another, most often if you are travelling at high speeds, most often too late, a relief to the spirit and bright on the eyes after much night driving, but upon closer examination, they are affected by the bush, even if only in small ways at first around the edges, they are living in makeshift homes in the bush, red sand tracked into a caravan, red mud in the rain, a scorpion in the shower block, a centipede plague in the wet, a breeze from over the range of dunes in a tree parked outside the telstra box, listening in, after the reptile show, the coaches take off, whirring up the stuart highway, shifting into higher and higher gears, until it appears that the wind roars through their engines, nothing will slow them down, knocking, banging, scraping of packing particularly loud are pots, pans and cutlery, buckets of water are carried by ladies with their slippers on and hair still wet, who say, 'hello,' on their way back from the open air laundry, a magpie and other birds watch briefly as we watch them until we all must get on with our own business, of washing, hard water in the shower blocks, full of the earth, the soap won't soap up on it and the earth is sprayed upon your skin, the earth through the water dismissed it, the creeks around here carry a lot of earth in them when they finally flow, the packed car and the road ahead, i am surprised at how quickly i have adapted to this old onroad lifestyle, the way people pack up and leave, men in thongs with wet and dry towels around their necks as the whole desert becomes a bathroom, the red fox shot past the toilet block, slipping between slippery legs, the crying kid who left the train book behind, found by the cleaner in the motel room, is on the road to alice springs and darwin

    

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