Traces of white ‘settlement’ in the landscape. Stretching back to 1828, like an old fence line between the past and present.
Timber, wire, metal, glass.
Ghost gateways to former paddocks and yards. Old posts; sometimes a single sentinel, often a series of points in a now imaginary line.
Rusty wire everywhere, everywhere. From single loops that span your hand, to giant loops of barb forgotten and still waiting never to be used. Look down at the ground anywhere and you may see some.
Old 44 gallon drums, still sound and recoverable.
A pile of old brandy bottles in a lost valley at the base of Staircase Mountain, discarded perhaps a hundred years ago after being used for pouring sheep drench.
Although I have come more and more to understand that the landscape still visible all around me has been shaped and created by Aboriginal hands, these poignant signs of the labour and aspirations of generations of whitefellas remain and speak and slowly decay.