By Kitty Owens

A pilgrimage.

The Murtoa Stick Shed, aka The Cathedral of the Wimmera.

Dusty roads lead to the urn at the gate.

Fortifying cups of tea, the sacred imbibement of rural Victoria.

Then, enter the vault.

Hazy beams of light pour from nail holes in the roof and pool on the floor in perfect circles.

We send love up and down hundreds of hardwood poles.

We are sad for the felled forest holding up the tin sky.

We are humbled by work well done; the sawing, barn raising, all of it, in service of the harvest.

We city girls find communion with sweat, dust, danger, camaraderie.

The after presence of slippery grain.

Oh yes, we can commune in this vast chamber of memory.

We breathe in the golden smoke-moted air.