Esso
High in the ranges a winding ribbon of gravel sneaks its way through an endless sea of eucalypts. The forest shimmering in forty five degree heat. Stillness, nothing stirring. Silence, save the piercing cry of a crow.
And here a capsule from another time. A simple timber shed, tin roof and ancient fuel pump encrusted in layers of paint. White dust, old linoleum floor, boxes of oil stained tools, icebox with drinks. Smokes, tobacco, blackened cash drawer in a wooden desk. Two old chairs on the verandah, one for him and one for conversation. Waiting.
The crunching of rubber on gravel. The ancient pump stirs, the numbers on its black dials roll over and over. Then again silence.
What lives have passed this stop, this way station between there and here? Who saw the chance and made this little place? What became of them?
And all the while the bush is waiting. Waiting to reclaim this encroachment as it surely will.
And here a capsule from another time. A simple timber shed, tin roof and ancient fuel pump encrusted in layers of paint. White dust, old linoleum floor, boxes of oil stained tools, icebox with drinks. Smokes, tobacco, blackened cash drawer in a wooden desk. Two old chairs on the verandah, one for him and one for conversation. Waiting.
The crunching of rubber on gravel. The ancient pump stirs, the numbers on its black dials roll over and over. Then again silence.
What lives have passed this stop, this way station between there and here? Who saw the chance and made this little place? What became of them?
And all the while the bush is waiting. Waiting to reclaim this encroachment as it surely will.
Ref:
Gafneys
Date:
Location:
Photographer:
Esso
High in the ranges a winding ribbon of gravel sneaks its way through an endless sea of eucalypts. The forest shimmering in forty five degree heat. Stillness, nothing stirring. Silence, save the piercing cry of a crow.
And here a capsule from another time. A simple timber shed, tin roof and ancient fuel pump encrusted in layers of paint. White dust, old linoleum floor, boxes of oil stained tools, icebox with drinks. Smokes, tobacco, blackened cash drawer in a wooden desk. Two old chairs on the verandah, one for him and one for conversation. Waiting.
The crunching of rubber on gravel. The ancient pump stirs, the numbers on its black dials roll over and over. Then again silence.
What lives have passed this stop, this way station between there and here? Who saw the chance and made this little place? What became of them?
And all the while the bush is waiting. Waiting to reclaim this encroachment as it surely will.
And here a capsule from another time. A simple timber shed, tin roof and ancient fuel pump encrusted in layers of paint. White dust, old linoleum floor, boxes of oil stained tools, icebox with drinks. Smokes, tobacco, blackened cash drawer in a wooden desk. Two old chairs on the verandah, one for him and one for conversation. Waiting.
The crunching of rubber on gravel. The ancient pump stirs, the numbers on its black dials roll over and over. Then again silence.
What lives have passed this stop, this way station between there and here? Who saw the chance and made this little place? What became of them?
And all the while the bush is waiting. Waiting to reclaim this encroachment as it surely will.
Ref:
Gafneys
Date:
Location:
Photographer:
THOUGHT
Esso
High in the ranges a winding ribbon of gravel sneaks its way through an endless sea of eucalypts. The forest shimmering in forty five degree heat. Stillness, nothing stirring. Silence, save the piercing cry of a crow.
And here a capsule from another time. A simple timber shed, tin roof and ancient fuel pump encrusted in layers of paint. White dust, old linoleum floor, boxes of oil stained tools, icebox with drinks. Smokes, tobacco, blackened cash drawer in a wooden desk. Two old chairs on the verandah, one for him and one for conversation. Waiting.
The crunching of rubber on gravel. The ancient pump stirs, the numbers on its black dials roll over and over. Then again silence.
What lives have passed this stop, this way station between there and here? Who saw the chance and made this little place? What became of them?
And all the while the bush is waiting. Waiting to reclaim this encroachment as it surely will.
And here a capsule from another time. A simple timber shed, tin roof and ancient fuel pump encrusted in layers of paint. White dust, old linoleum floor, boxes of oil stained tools, icebox with drinks. Smokes, tobacco, blackened cash drawer in a wooden desk. Two old chairs on the verandah, one for him and one for conversation. Waiting.
The crunching of rubber on gravel. The ancient pump stirs, the numbers on its black dials roll over and over. Then again silence.
What lives have passed this stop, this way station between there and here? Who saw the chance and made this little place? What became of them?
And all the while the bush is waiting. Waiting to reclaim this encroachment as it surely will.
