Emptiness drifted past the windows
as I watched in vain for kangaroos.
For mile on monotonous mile the train
travelling its arrow-straight track
was all that moved, ballooning
clouds of dust that settled anew
on grey-green scrub and merged
with the red desert sand.
Excited, we stopped at Cook,
sad settlement for fettlers,
where the weekly train brought supplies
and news of the outside world.
We looked at the women
looking at us, expressionless faces,
eyes lacklustre, deadened
by the lifeless landscape.
Back on the train, on the way
to somewhere, our spirits lifted.
Sylvia Goodman
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