Finally, we arrived at a destination that had no address, only a
stand of large macrocarpa isolated in the windswept
loneliness. A forlorn and derelict church now a hay barn
looks blearily with it's broken windows.
Nearby there was another building; its towering Auschwitz grey
concrete walls and parapets frowning over a sash window.
Peering through a dark vista within was a room of peeling
walls, cobwebs and a lumpy striped kapok mattress slung
over a a double iron bed. A few pillows
there, that had never cushioned a human head in years.
It was overcast and dim outside; an air of unease - a few
faceless headstones, weather-worn names long forgotten.
The trees leaned inwards; their branches creaking and knocking
in the breeze. Near the old manse, a branch had snapped
off; the broken end shaped like a shovel, and the rocking of
the bough and was digging a hole in the soft earth shaped
like a coffin.
Rock-a-bye baby, the tree intoned, and sighed, hush-a-by-
baby. The bough broken and cradled no baby.
In the gold rush days hardy souls lived out here. I
wondered how many children died at birth or soon after.
On the way back, along the narrow track, the hairs on
the back of my head would not lie down.
.