I was born to dirt roads
and paddocks stitched with fence wire—
a sky too big for pockets,
and stars that never felt far.
Kookaburras laughed me awake,
and magpies taught me
which trees were theirs.
The gum trees never asked for praise,
but earned it,
standing through wind and fire.
There’s grace in the dry of it—
in creeks that vanish,
then come back when no one’s looking.
In red dust that clings
like the past,
but never weighs you down.
I grew up barefoot,
with sun on my back
and the kind of silence
that teaches you
how to listen.
Free not just to run—
but to be.
To speak soft when I wanted,
to shout if I had to,
to believe in things
without needing to name them.
This land has never been tame.
But it has been kind.
And I carry that kindness—
deep in the soles
of the country I walk on.
Ryan Stone
Leave a Reply