On the drive to Perth there was a junction into a concrete tube, combed with dry wells. I could no longer see the road. At the end a funnel fanned out into the lap of a chess board, and I dragged the old car up onto the gravel shore. There were rooms clinging to the high walls and to the ceiling, like leftover soap bubbles, boxes clinging like residual packing peanuts. I followed the smell into the narrow room, ostensibly near the floor on the south.

A noticeable deterioration allowed me to view a beam’s section of the world around outside – wind-scraped, and hunkered under sliding blades of ground stone meal. I knew then the diversion was heroically in time.

Getting down through the mass of rods to the door, and looking down on the chequered board from a weary bird’s view, I was lost again. Crawled along a ladder in a gritty pipe. Tumbled in a chute that smeared my clothes with tan, and pried a metal door in a squeeze that did not allow my elbows.

But then out, into the dying wind, and I scratched some of the stone from the road with my boot. My grand old car I could not return for, not now, but perhaps I will meet it again.

#DailyCreatedOOM #WrittenOOM 2023/06/25