From Quorn to Hawker, the land dissolves into a burnished
Clay-red, frozen in the glare of perpetual sunset.
The ranges loom across the plain. They’re given names like
Pugilist Hill or Death Rock. Designated sites of
Historical interest are barren. They were surveyed, a
Century back. Mapped, settled, abandoned. The odd ruin
A tribute to the settlers’ optimism. In Nineteen Fourteen,
A Wilpena Pound diarist wrote: All we wanted for
Christmas was rain. The rain came on Christmas Day. With such
Vigour that the road was washed away. Drought followed by
Destruction. This will always be frontier country. The last
Inhabitable edge before dingoes and desert lay claim
To the world. Its beauty is its starkness is its warning.
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