The rain beats down on the windscreen.
The beads dance a little dance before being
swept away into the darkness by the harsh,
unyielding edges of the wiper blades. The
beams of the headlights bounce off the roadside,
reflecting off into space. I cross the weir at
Audley, in the Royal National Park. The sound
of countless frogs seeking their mates is
temporarily overpowered by the roar of the exhaust.
An unwelcome intruder I, they cease their singing,
and wait for me to cross the river and be gone.

The engine barks as I ram the car forward with
the gear lever. The camshaft, valves and pistons
scream in a mechanical frenzy. The car and I are
one, tonight. We guide each other through the
blackness, aware that one mistake would be our last.

We trust each other.

The road unwinds its sinuous curves without
forgiveness. It twists and turns, a bitumen serpent.

I play this precision instrument on the edge.
It sings a special song. A song of fury, of
adrenalin, of anger. A song of purpose.

Lonely is this place. All is pitch black,
save for the shadows cast by the six driving
lights. In the distance a deer, standing in the
middle of the road, is terrified by the light
and noise, and scampers off into the protection
of the surrounding scrub.

I finally emerge at the top of the cliff,
overlooking the open ocean. I park on the ridge,
and switch off the ignition. Mechanical components
click and cool in the darkness. The rain has
softened to a gentle drizzle.

I get out and let the rain reinvigorate me.
It trickles down my face. The wind howls through
the trees behind me, their branches thrashing
invisibly against the dark hillside.

I stand on the cliff top, and stare out at the
horizon; barely distinguishable through the fog.
South of me flicker the lights of the coastal towns,
perched along the ocean road that I have travelled
countless times, in the small hours of the night.

The wind shakes the trees in an incessant fury.
I stare out at the horizon for what seems to be
forever. I see the lights of a solitary oil tanker
far away, heading towards oblivion, on a furious sea.
I am at peace here. And I am not at peace.

For I think of what it would be like to be with you,
to hold your hand, to caress you, to kiss you,
to smell your hair, to share this night with you.
To watch the sun rise over that same horizon which
is now dark, black, and wild.

But there is not the fragrance of your hair, only the
faint scent of eucalyptus being stripped from the trees
by the tumultuous wind. There is not your laughter,
but merely the laughter of the wind. There is not
the touch of your hand upon my face, but simply
the touch of the rain.

I am one with the ocean, with the rain, with the wind.

They mirror my soul. We comfort each other.
We understand. The trees tremble with respect.
The hillside makes no comment; immutable.
It will remain long after the trees have withered and
died, and the wind blows no more, the ocean having
evaporated into space. Of all of us, the hillside
knows that it will endure, long after I have faded
to dust. Not even my memories will remain, then.

I stand on the cliff top, and stare out at the horizon.

The towns below beckon to me. I wind my way down
the coastal road. A train, carrying its load of coal,
blindly gropes its way through the blackness,
its moronic, unseeing eye searching for the
entrance to the tunnel.

The houses cling to the cliff side as if afraid
of falling into the crashing waves below:
mute witnesses to my passing. I wish that you
were here with me.

I pass through the ranks of the timid buildings, alone.

I take the freeway and finally arrive home. It is now
three o’clock. They say that if you are to die in
your sleep, then this is the most likely time.

I sit and write these thoughts to you, for I think
of you always, and want to be with you. In my mind’s
eye, I think back to the black, wild horizon,
and my heart fills with sadness that you are on
the other side.

Would’st that I were a bird, so I could fly into
your waiting arms. But alas, I cannot. For I am
earthbound, and with only your distant spirit to
enrich my existence, so much the poorer for it.

My heart is carried to you upon the wind.

© Dean Malandris
Sunday, 4 May 1997