now honeys play me close like butter play toast

Until, much later, is heard, very faint, a low wailing song. It ebbs and flows, growing stronger.  It is accompanied by a low didjeridoo.  The music, the song - a mournful dirge - builds up rhythmically.  A light comes on.  It shows three figures - three old women - sitting in a circle in the centre of the otherwise bare clearing.   One has a piece of bark which she beats softly on the ground, one a pair of clapping sticks with which she keeps time, and the third beats time with her hand against her thigh.  The wailing is melodic yet unchanging; infinitely sad but strangely pleasant.  It rises and fall to an underlying beat as old as time.  Then, gradually, the sound fades.

So too does the light.

And again it is dark and quiet.

It has been dark for some time.