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I come from a dry place. Almost Siberian in its extremes. In summer, if you sleep all day, you can go out at night in bare feet, and the concrete is beautifully warm. That same concrete in daylight hours is inhospitable. And the dust blown in on those dry West winds. South of South Africa they came toward us and came crashing into the cliffs that tell the sailors: you have reached the great Southern land. In Fremantle, they breathed a sigh of relief as the doctor touched their forehead and cooled the brow. Easy now. Keep moving, over the land, towards the Dreamtime, edging past a mystery - and somewhere a train loaded with rock clacks in isolation. Click clack. The long haul truck drivers go onto autopilot.

Nullabor: no trees. Red earth: the colour of our dreams.

Beyond the curve of the Earth we know but do not see the airforce pilot going Mach 3. He looks down, gas mask sucking. Spinefex. Spinefex. Road. Spinefex.

Come closer. The same fish that sits below Africa, trodden on, lies here. Waiting for the rain. Starts planning its next breath. The last drop of moisture was taken from the air days ago, but the wind keeps pushing on. Skeletal. Whistling dry. The trucks still haven't arrived. Over the ruins of mountain range from last aeon, dust that blows the shapes of what we nothing know. All things burnt to cleanliness, the dust too is clean.

And from that autoclave of central Australia, the winds arrive to me. I take my wet washing from the machine, and two turns around hills hoist. First a stretch to peg them up. Then another as the metal squeaks back to where I started, and I can start to take them down. Why even take the basket from my hip? Perhaps the wind is moister now. I wonder what else expired in that thin air that covered the ground from here to there, the folk in Perth breath easy, but I look aside to try and get this dust from my nose and eyes. Scratch my face hope no one sees me.

In winter, the thinly clad houses shiver to the buzz of tinny electric heaters, cool air streaming in under the cracks in the doors. Mornings are frigid. The light frost on the grass seems to creep in through the windows and settle on the bare shoulders, just out of the steaming shower. Towels are never big enough: wince and grimace. We dress promtly here. Insulation? "Oh, I suppose we could, but it all costs money, doesn't it? No point anyway, it gets so hot in summer."