It’s not really nowhere of course. Someone here grows our daily bread.
But they are nowhere to be seen. Just an endless gently curving field and the burning late-afternoon sun being sucked at hungrily by the million-fold ears of wheat. The tumbledown barn built by a grandfather long gone stands sentinel over a family’s industry, and when you face south the endless bitumin ribbon snarls by unseen and ignored.
Between somewhere and somewhere, in South Australia.
Musings by George Polley
Wondering how God could have got all this into such a short Tale
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Yolly this is your most succinct story…in fact it’s not really a story…erm we all know SA is dead boring but you have dealt with the subject ‘very gently’….
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I grew up in the wheatbelt of Western Australia, naturally I feel a lot of what you wrote.
All the best,
Woody
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Reminds me of the Great Plains of the U.S. that seem to go on endlessly, and produce so much.
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Thank you for reminding the city folks where their food is grown.
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