Night Walk

Notes from an evening walk

Halfway between my new hometown and my old one lies the Moolort Plains. In wetter years the swamps and wetlands fill, water seeping in from surrounding farmland. Now they are some of the last places where native vegetation remains, the rest long shaped by cultivation and use.

It’s one of my favourite places to walk, especially in the evening. The plains open wide to the sky, and the sunsets gather there, clouds shifting, sometimes catching light in pinks and oranges before fading out.

There isn’t much water around at the moment. Most of the wetlands are dry, though a few shallow lakes still hold on after recent storms.

One lies a short distance from the highway. To reach it you have to leave the road, climb a gate, and push through long grass and lignum. It’s not far. After a hundred metres or so the trees open out into a small clearing, with a few old ones standing apart. Alone, but together

Tree in the evening, Moolort Plains, Victoria.

Last night I walked there with my son. We passed an abandoned homestead set back from the road, its front gate barely visible beneath fallen cypress branches. The bluestone and brick house stood open to the twilight, no windows, no doors. And you could see straight through it

Abandoned homestead, Moolort.

Walk tonight
out through the long grass
into the wetlands.

Let your feet find the gaps,
the misses,
leading you somewhere
you can only reach by accident.

Your fingers brushing summer grass,
soft silver in moonlight.

Feet entering cool water,
making just enough sound
for snakes to slip away.

A black insect shines on your arm
like a jewel.

Walk quietly enough
to let the brolgas stay close —
the chick that cannot fly.

Stand still.

If they move, they dance.
If they don’t,
they are already watching —

the mystery of you
in darkness.

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We walked back in the dark. The highway lay empty in both directions.

I pointed out a stand of pines in the distance. My grandfather, as a young man, had ridden his bicycle to the ‘old time’ dance hall there. He went to meet the woman who would become my grandmother. Twelve miles from Maryborough. The Moolort dance was the next place where he knew she would be.

I told my son how he would have ridden past this spot where we stood on the way home, late at night with his friends, with bicycle lamps shining in the dark.

Walking back to the car, my son was quieter.

The homestead no longer seemed as frightening. Something about the wetland had settled us both. It doesn’t take much, just a short walk, a pause, a willingness to notice : before a place begins to feel different.

Or perhaps it’s us that changes.

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