A steam train of pink clouds puffed along the horizon, tooting the sun up.Flying over the city of Brisbane, bridges of reflected light cross the river, here, and here.
The Rockhampton sky is full of fog and sadness; the sun is missing. Bogs and hollows are full of water, an emerald carpet of grass edges to the river. The Fitzroy obediently flows in a straight line, past the shops and houses, past the boats and crabpots, before kicking it’s giddy way to the sea.
Fat bottomed boats turn their back to the sea with the outgoing tide.
Just south of Rockhampton is a secret place of rivers. Too lazy to immediately rush to the open seas’ embrace, they meander in a slovenly but sensuous twist and turn; their banks lined with dark green borders of mangroves and mud crabs.
Placed in between each snaking stream are areas of neat rectangles of various colours: whites, pinks, greys. Salt lakes. Slow evaporation ponds scar the land and jar the senses and rounded curves of the smaller rivers.
At low tide, acres of mud lies sunbaking in the Tropic of Capricorn sunshine watching the planes fly overhead. Lushness tickles the tree-line, and lagoons hold lily pads and many secrets. The Fitzroy strides to the oceans, impatient to be released.