There are no maps to ease the passage of the godless. Already he is where none can follow. He has climbed into this space, this cavern in near-night, in the far-distance, driven. Cries that crash in forests of memory. Hunter and hunted, and which is he? Obscured in semi-darkness, crouched head bent to bony knees, …
Joanna Preston: Tasmanaut Poet
A Dark Feathered Art 