Imprint of Uluru
Uluru is ancient wonder;
Uluru is desert wildflowers
blooming at the end of August;
Uluru is feeling cold in a beanie and
thermals at 10:00am, hot in a singlet top and sunhat at midday;
Uluru is no more beautiful than her cousin Kata Tjuta;
Uluru is 573 photographs;
Uluru is a busload of
disappointed tourists staring at the “Climb is closed today” sign;
Uluru is bush plums and cave
paintings;
Uluru is unexpected gorges of
greenery;
Uluru is silvery spinifex and
small yellow flowers;
Uluru is a cross-legged seat
off the track and a 20 minute sketch;
Uluru is trying to hold the
camera steady as a fly crawls under sunglasses across my closed eyelid;
Uluru is a decision to respect,
made years ago;
Uluru is a knowledgeable, funny
guide and a majestic, calm base walk;
Uluru is two guys reading the
signs “Please don’t climb” and deciding what to do;
Uluru is tears cried in the
cultural centre reading letters written by previous visitors;
Uluru is people climbing like ants up a steep slope;
Uluru is a gaggle of tourists at sunrise and sunset;
Uluru is grey sandstone and
iron oxide rusting;
Uluru is 348 metres high;
Uluru is majesty;
Uluru is the desert watching;
Uluru is silence;
Uluru is birds singing;
Uluru is the colours of the desert;
Uluru is spiritual heartland;
Uluru is.
Uluru is.
Uluru is.
