Nathalie Buckland: DIRT FLOOR

I park at the bottom of the steep driveway, and walk up a rutted track between towering gums. Birdcalls stop as I pass, resume behind me. Close to the top I hear faint sounds of music. My friends are there, in the house with only three walls. A billy simmers over an open fire for the first of many cups of tea. No electricity or running water. Mangoes spill from a hand-made basket. My friends come to greet me under the palm fronds. I take off my shoes and go inside.

midday –
many-coloured wax
on the candlesticks

After tea and conversation we sing. The others play instruments. Though I have only my voice, it is enough.

pan pipes
her bare feet
on the dirt floor

by Nathalie Buckland

Nimbin, New South Wales, Australia

first published in an earlier version in Yellow Moon, 2005