The Kimberley
Beyond the common trodden track
How I wish you could witness what I see,
When I talk about this wild and breathtaking land.
I’m referencing of course, to our dear old friend, The Kimberley.
Country blanketed by a sea of red oxidised sand, rich in ore.
Dotted with the iconic spiney spinifex,
Towered over by the architecturally pleasing termite mounds.
Surrounded by the Snappy White gums, shaded in sage.
Orange gradually floods the horizon as a new day dawns,
The sable black sky melts into a lively blue.
The stars dissolve by the second.
An orchestra of feathery folk whistle a lyrical symphony.
The Galahs float through the sky, like flying ice cream.
Qual scurry through the shrubs by the dozen, seeking water.
Black Kites frequent the scene of road kill.
The monumental Wedge Tail surveys the plains with intimidating patience.
Dragonflies by the millions indicate the dry season approach.
Accompanied by a nearby bushfire,
whose smoke has occupied the aforementioned lively blue.
However, not so unwanted as the smell of smouldering eucalyptus infuses the atmosphere.
Come nightfall, the inferno radiates its copper glow into existence.
The local countrymen whose lineage steward the land,
Conduct ceremony on this ancient red sand.
Through song, dance and smoke.
Cleansing their environment and the spirit of each passing folk.
Upon arrival of the wet season, the water will start to flow,
Rapid floods are certain to put on quite the show.
Down the river systems from the top end,
Reviving the arteries that hydrate our damn scenic friend.
Each time the rain graces the timeless red,
The colour runs deeper as if blood was shed.
Petrichor is the word for the smell of rain,
In the Kimberley, the petrichor is akin to the visual terrain.
Harmonised with the wet is the humidity.
Clothes drenching, thirst enhancing, chafe welcoming humidity.
The local flora thrives in its warm and dense viability.
Sprouting the charcoaled seedpods, exposing the raw green fertility.
The seasons within seasons, generate a steady sequence of death and rebirth
a fire rips through and decimates what no longer serves.
The intense downpours and ruthless humidity promote abundance.
The dry easterlies compose a series of whirly winds,
That picks up sand, debris and bush seeds as it spins.
Scattered storms pass on by, with lightning electrifying the night sky,
causing you to gasp in marvel as you whisper “My oh my”.
Plants, animals and locals have all adapted to the cycles the region yields.
It just wouldn’t be as exclusively striking if it was crowded with lush green fields.
Sure, it’s a tropical life on the coast,
Where the tourists are drawn to the most.
But it’s beyond the common trodden track where the true spirit of the Kimberley can be witnessed.
Believe me, to the bones you will permeate with interest.
You’ll know you’re within the vicinity,
When your drawn to place your hands upon the prehistoric Boab tree.
A dashing Tata lizard stops to beckon you further with an enthusiastic wave.
Will it lead you to the magnificent Bungle Bungles or the awe-inspiring Mimbi Caves?
Whatever your path or reason for embarking in the north west,
Whether it’s a family trip or solo vision quest,
Be prepared to reinstate and synchronise inwardly.
As it’s only a matter of when, you’ll stop in and visit our old dear friend,
The Kimberley.
LRC~
There’s something sacred in the way you captured the Kimberley—not just its geography but its memory.