Death of a Miners Cottage

Bursts of colour,  red and orange streak across the darkening blue sky. A curlew calls in the distance with a chilling eeriness of sound.  The cracking of a tin roof as it settles against a wooden frame entreats the sun to continue its journey below the horizon. The  creak of a wooden floor echoes the tin and the curlew’s voice is joined by another. The swinging shadows of an old glass light plays across the sagging wood walls as a soft breeze blows through the empty casement windows. As the shadows lengthen in the sky, moisture gathers in the cracks and the smell of decay permeates the air. Dust motes float in the air, shining white in a flash of brilliance as the dying light catches them dancing.

Is that a moving shadow I see from the corner of my eye?

A screech of a possum, the lazy purr of engines approaching and fading in the distance. The roof creaks again and shadows caress the exposed beams of wood. Another curlew, the faint howl of a dingo in the far distance, and as the last light dips behind the tall gums a flash of brilliance as it reflects off the tin. A moment, so brief, of what it once was and it is gone.

(Don’t forget to check out Other Endeavours.)

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