The last Post Pass Calibration

Silent, deserted, no longer alive,
With the bustle of former days:
Standing listless in the sun
The intruders have gone their ways.

Nearby, the stands for antennae rise
In testimony of the time,
When metal fingers probed the sky
At the satellites in their climb.

Kangaroos gaze with soft brown eye
At the station that used to be
And the salt lake stretches dazzling white
Like a shimmering timeless sea.

Within the building silent stands
The equipment deadly mute:
Tape recorders spin no more,
The silence is acute.

No more to hear the SCAMA call
Nor the birds’ unearthly note
“That’s station 18, finished now”
You’ll hear the knowing quote

But across the country to the east
There grows a like creation
Within it holds the traditions of
Old number 18 station.