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Hot night in midsummer’s drought
Not even the scrub-covered ridges could be seen in the smothering darkness,
On either side of the cascading waterfall the dreary sway of sycamores choked the sound of the active nocturnes,
The sky was clouded not of rain, but with drought haze and smoke carried from the distant bushfires

A road ran along by the foot of a line of low ridges as he passed the gullies and gaps,
He followed a railed fence leaning lazily until he came to a white iron gate,
There was a house with white-washed slab walls and a bark roof;
Quietly he followed the house around to the door of a detached shed

He struck a match with anticipation but it failed to light,
The thick moisture suspended on the air made it difficult;
Persevering he managed to illuminate the room and swivelled his eyes from wall to wall;
Patiently looking for a long piece of strong rope and then plucking it from amongst the crowded objects;
He withdrew from the darkened room and clambered up the challenging cliff side

Taking the rope he fastened it to an over hanging tree limb, then secured the loop around his neck,
Closing his eyes he lurched forward leaving the ground,
The rope he selected failed and snapped,
He plunged like an unguided boulder;