Thoughts of Murphy’s Creek

Kilometre after kilometre of fence lines with debris and brown grass clinging like dead skin to the barbed wire.

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Driving past a crumpled something. It’s not until I am beside it, I realise it is a car. Was a car. Looks like a crushed tissue. I gasp so deeply momentarily my car wobbles as my hands shake.

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Driving past homes and front gates with a sad flapping piece of police tape. In some areas it’s blue and white. Other places have the same tape, as well as orange and white. I don’t know what it means, and I love that I am protected from the horror.

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Noting wordlessly another police tape on a letterbox. A gate. We try not to look, to pry.

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The further along the road I drive, looking for a safe U-turn place, the tighter my stomach draws into a knot. I feel physically sick, and can't wait to throw the car into a tight right-hand lock and swing it towards home. Hurry!

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A sign outside the pub: IF ANYONE FINDS ANY PIECE OF CLOTHING, NO MATTER HOW SMALL, PLEASE REPORT IMMEDIATLEY. DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT REMOVE.

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The army are everywhere at Murphy’s Creek. Row upon row of enormous tents sit in a paddock, across the road opposite the pub.  The old shop is next door, where I bought my 8 chooks from Lois, and I recall how we used to enjoy our Saturday afternoon chats across the shop counter.  The road is full of water trucks dampening down the dust and gravel; heavy machinery. 

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Traffic-control men spray their tired faces with water bottles as we drive past. They lean on the STOP SLOW signs with a determined grimness.

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The countryside so green. Such a high price to pay for the rain.
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