.Straw dirt and smoke drifting from chimney
.old man with hat standing outside pub
.cattle carts parked outside
.looking down a long dirt track
.dusty swing door
.old oak door frame
.cowboy kinda bar
.Flats Hawea hog written on it
.i stopped cause hungry
.old font and slightly carved out sand h
.scratches all over the door
ZOOMS IN ON.
.worn out tarnished bronze
.standard 96 font
.simple beaten metal
.not rusty looks polished but only like dull polished with a rag and covered with dust.
Hawea Flat early 1900’s, the dusty road winds off towards the river barge 10km north, behind you another road winds up the hill and off to Luggate. Luggate was a hole. You hope the flats of Hawea would be better. Looking at the door to the tavern now you realize your hopes are ruined, the door that was probably once a grand solid oak affair is now broken, scratched and dulled. The handle hangs lopsided a half circle away from where it should be. Above and around the door frame creeks, along with the floorboards there creating a symphony of dull creaks and groans. The writing though, The writing. Yes, it’s weatherbeaten and dull, but in a way, it looks cared for, sure it could do with a touch of oil, a rub with a rag but the screws are tight and it’s not nearly as bad as the rest of the door. Your vision focuses even further in there’s something about the S in flats. Something about it that captures your eye, is it the way the horseshoe has been so carefully smelted into a perfect set of curves. Is it the…..hold on whats that you close one eye and squint close just there on the ridge of the second curve a tiny design almost too small for your eye to make out? The initials j-b-d-h Scrawled in a tiny sharp font. What does it mean you wonder? What does it matter? Shaking your head you push open the door and forget you ever saw that writing that was scrawled sharp and small.