Turned up by snowmelt
Near abandoned silver mines.
There’s never been a tempest
In an actual teapot,
And if ever there were one,
The media sensation
Would likely eclipse
Attention given
To ordinary tempests.
The rarity, not the scale,
Makes an event worth marking.
(Even when scale is remarked,
It’s because the scale is rare.)
Walking by Whitewater Creek
In cool mountains, I’m thinking
Through my ghostly calendars
Again, because I have to,
Because I can, recalling
A hot day in Australia,
On this date ten years ago.
That day lasted forever,
From Darwin to Kakadu,
Because you couldn’t make it
Fit your fantasy
Of exploring the Outback
In a dusty Land Rover
Camper van with jerry cans,
Like you’d seen in the pictures.
All day you’d turned down
Suburban RV rentals.
Even when, at last, you’d picked
A Toyota Land Cruiser
With no camping gear in it,
You’d still kicked the dash and screamed,
And vowed to not spend one night
In another damned hotel,
And went on a shopping spree
At the suburban market
For food and camping supplies.
By the time we got
To Kakadu, it was dark.
The night air was full of flies.
We tried to sleep in the truck,
But their biting maddened you,
And it was suffocating
When we rolled the windows up.
You decided we needed
A motel. It was midnight.
We drove deeper through the dark.
Two unlit petrol pumps loomed.
There was a sign for cabins
And a pay phone in a shed.
Desperate to pacify you,
I called the posted number.
Miraculously, someone
Answered. Yes, they had one left.
More driving, and a check-in,
And bug-free sleep in clean sheets.
We drove around for two weeks
And stayed at an inn
Or a roadhouse every night.
You found those NT
Roadhouses fascinating,
Enjoyed your conversations
With innkeepers, guest workers,
Travelers, children, lost souls
Hoping for handouts
That you met under the bridge.
You took many photographs.
We got to see Uluru
Rainbowed, wreathed In waterfalls.
We spent days in emptiness.
We spent nights on mattresses.
Every morning we had tea.
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