An Ocean Road

 The coast road was hacked out of the bush by returned soldiers. Using pickaxes and shovels they cut man’s clarity out of the dense fogs that sent ships to the sandy soil of the ocean. Lighthouses dotted the coast and eery rock formations rose out of the surf.  The road followed no track, just the circuitous route from the edge of one bay to the next. It was to be the epitome of the civilised scenic motor tour. Flies, flood and drought came and went, but the precipitous cliffs fell to the sea, again and again, blanketed by the dense rainforest with the mist over-hanging like a shroud. Those morning mists rendered the strong smell of the eucalyptus visible to the working men, and they knew they were home. Those men made small by war became once again great, as they stooped and stretched with the giants of the forest. The strong, round branches of the manna gum spread open confidently to their sky, like hands striving to contain the openness, their washed out greens pasted against the blue. The mountain ash stood like soldiers in silent file, still and giant in their vertiginous height, grey trunks wreathed in fog. And the myrtle beech were as gnarled and twisted as some deep, dark prehistoric secret that men see only to disturb their age old slumber. The loamy ground buoyed them up, and I imagined they rested on the ground littered with fern fronds, discarded leaves, and strips of bark, lying and listening to the call of the birds. The peeps of the honeyeaters, fantails in their looping flight, treecreepers, rosellas as streaks of colour, currawongs falling clumsily from branch to branch. The green, almost edible looking ground ferns sheltered tiger snakes and white-lipped snakes. It was a forest different from others, a forest of deep leaf litter, of fleshy-fruited plants and of very large trees. It was a great winding road that would send you on your way west if you wanted it. Where, now, once past the bustling summer villages bursting with swimmers, with their snorkels and thongs, with their buckets and boogie boards, most turned back to Melbourne where the lights always remained the same. For those who just came for the sun - the road could seem too long.For her, the road is neither long nor short - it just is. She is set up to face them, those so busy in their packed vehicles, the wind from their passing engines buffeting her soul about, blowing it wide open, until I can see her there and so small on that familiar road where we once were. The three of us in our Dad’s car. Our brother between us, his ringlets brushing our sun stained arms. Our singing, with our swinging brown summer legs making us giddy with ourselves and our eternal togetherness that cannot be recovered.