This is the country I learned to call home.
The waves with each tidal change pulled me closer to the centre of it, the heart of it, the simplicity of a signature in the soil. Tracing my bare feet in the sand in a linear timeline of here and now and trailing into the sea of past and future. Flowing in waves, swelling into breaking whites, leaving foam fingerprints pressed into tan lines, glass bottles and surfboards.
This place I paced back and forth in dots and dashes on maps, in planes and buses. Where north met south in strangers in hostel rooms and we all headed east, saving the west for another time. Because time was infinite in that traced barefoot line in the sand, measured only in triple J songs on the radio and train schedules at Flinders Station.
These postcard friendships made along the way filled envelopes, stored in letterboxes labelled Ms. Cortex. Opened each time a memory of the sun fades in and out of focus. Every time that something reminds me this is the place I got to call home, if only for a time.