Even though the horses gingerly trod,
high-stepping spinifex mats and burnt clay scorched
the pads from sheepdog feet and gibber plain rocks
abraded bullock hooves; though dry heat cored
loose pencil leads and wood lost screws, yet Sturt’s
provisioning was in most respects unflawed
except for the whaleboat. The party lurched
from waterhole to waterhole to reach
Australia’s heart where marsh and coastal birds
might surf the clouds above an inland sea.
A deluge slashed the red dune slacks with pale
mauve transient streams and bloated desert peas*
burst into blooms like tiny boats flambé.
Blue cavalier White-winged fairy wrens endeared
dun wrens with proffered petals. Bulldog shale
enmeshed an old sea’s dregs with silica spheres
in creamy opal seams flecked green and blue.
But deeper still, confined in sandstone tiers
lay Sturt’s huge inland sea, his instincts true.
In eighteen forty-four though, no-one knew.
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