Unnamed - Elaine Abery

Cooee

Eeooc

High pitched. Low pitched. Bouncing around, off the walls, floor, ceiling. Brushing the contours of the stones.

And it’s done.

That was it. The end of the tunnel.

Push. Push. Whirr. Whirr. The wheels spin and turn, propelled by the pushing.

Before you know it, the newness of this contrast has become the usual. Leaves display an assortment of greens against the palette of barky, soily browns.

The black line continues up, up the hill. The wheels manoeuvre around slower wheels, feet, loose gravel and the occasional brush turkey.

Breathing is heavier. Conversation is slower, or it stops.

The awkward bumpiness of wooden planks jar body parts and make a strange noise. Something like rat-a-tat-tat-a-rat-rat. Don’t be caught by- or in- the grooves!