The wind blows through the blackwood’
Speaking in canticles.
The pipes resound amid the ancient creek bed.
Pardalotes and Bee eaters, moths and butterflies,
Each communing with the ancient songline.
The long and winding bed of rich granitic sand
Speaks as I sit in the middle of its heart.
Feeling the sand beneath my feet and toes.
The wind on my cheeks.
My body freed of clothes
And all primal source tapped.
Anchored to my soul.
Ground in this ancient landscape.
Free to draw the body in return.
His body muscles ripple and flex.
The triangle torso.
Proportioned and stocky.
The breeze caresses the cheeks and thighs.
My own refreshed in the breeze.
The sun is warm and healing.
For I am home.
—Pilbara Dreaming Collection
—23 July 2010