The old homestead is approach along a rutted, flat, salt brush edged track. Now a pile of rubble only a stark burnt out chimney place stands with crumbling bricks as a sign of habitation. The smell of stale piss and broken glass covers its base. I rub the rotting mortar of the stones beneath my finger tips. The perspective of the past clashes with the present. Moods of dread, of renewed anticipation out of necessity, romance, anger and greed, pain and hardship flow through me. An image of romantic decay, remote from ordinary life sensed. Behind the old house, a cold room built deep into the earth. Down flaked cement steps into the gloom, the air thick and stale. A rotting carcass and the sweet smell of death.

Inside the tin shed, stale shit pellets. A breeze shudders the loose iron walls. Serrated and grey fleeces of dead wool. A fly blown lump spread in the corner, white bones showing.