Armadale to Beverly,
Beverly to Quairading,
Quairading onwards.
We travelled old country roads all our lives,
Dad always helping people to move house,
Road tripping during school holidays,
Funerals every second Friday.
Passing towering wheat silos,
Different farmlands that Dad used to work on,
The old reserve,
Makeshift crosses and wreaths,
Painted with family names.
Dad,
With his "Hotrod Heart",
Driving 20 plus k's over the limit,
With his footy-shorts-&-singlet,
Air Con cranked,
All. Year. Round.
Mum,
With her knitted throw rug,
Singing Dolly Parton's
"Love is Like a Butterfly"
As we float along lost songlines.
Dad tunes in the CB,
The Ol' Bandit from way back,
Listening for reports on Smokie.
Mum drifts off,
Listening for whispers,
From kin that are no longer living.
Watching forests become wildflower plains,
Then rocky hillsides,
Back again.
Cruising,
Thinking,
My heart beats along bitumen.