Reflections by the Campfire

I jotted down this poem on the final night of our ten-day road trip through the remote Pilbara region of Western Australia. Looking back, it feels steeped in the bittersweet pull of returning to work after a long stretch of freedom. That day, driving from Onslow to Wooramel, we had Radiohead playing a lot during the drive—a soundtrack that seemed to weave itself into the landscape and the mood of the moment.

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What Will Always Be

Fading faces chase the glow,

Through hollow streets where shadows flow.

Their eyes are dim, their hearts forget,

The weight of dreams they can’t reset.

The world hums loud with brittle lies,

Plastic hopes in neon skies.

They bend, they break, beneath the cost,

Carrying burdens long since lost.

Yet in the cracks, a whisper sings,

Of fleeting flames and unseen wings.

No hand can hold, no name can bind,

The chords that haunt the silent mind.

They drift through fog, both still and torn,

Between the dusk and what’s reborn.

No clock can cage, no chain can keep,

The longing carved in restless sleep.

Surrender calls, a fragile art,

Not to chains, but to the heart.

In letting go, the soul takes flight,

A spark that cuts the endless night.

Where motion meets the quiet’s plea,

The world dissolves, and spirits see.

Soft and urgent, rooted, free,

They rise toward what will always be.