As I was walking about in the forest, variously jubilant with the surprising honour of being in old growth wilderness, virtually untouched by the claws of man, or even the nasty vipers of ‘connectivity’, and at other times hunched and bitter over the battles and treasons that are this Age, upon us everywhere, I began … More The Book of Leaf
Today I met a rich man. He was packing up his 4WD after a long weekend at the country house, over-looking the ocean, nextdoor. His face was heavy with several decades of Camembert and expensive Shiraz. He seemed embarrassed about his dog. He shook my hand as if he were going for a home run, … More Letter to a rich man at dusk.
I hit the boy in a daydream. He strolled his motorbike straight out onto the highway where my 50km an hour cruise in flipflops and sun dress was abruptly confused into a squall of bent metal, shredded petals and grating skin. It was a bright morning, the scent of papaya and grass smoke on the … More Through the window
A desperate flotilla,
our unquiet beds
strayed the wide back of night
as we, dreamless in Denmark,
alone in the undark,
in our silvery seas. … More One night, the moon – dreamless in Denmark
tiptoed like a fleet of silken fairies
across a busty chorus of cloud,
across the pretty lawn, doused in nightdew
and through a lattice of gum leaves … More The poet, by moonlight.
Lilium xx in her glass, brightly she furls and uncurls her long limbs, xxxxxxdusted xxxxxxwith tiny creatures xxxxxxof light. xx almost naked in the thin glow of this quiet table, beside the car keys and a flotsam of letters with plastic windows, she slow … More Lilium – in her glass, brightly.
It’s eight years since I left Australia full-time to explore beyond these shark-bitten frontiers. At that time I was empty of stories and exhausted with the thin pickings of a suburban existence on a land that cried out for … what? I’d been living in the Aussie bush for five years and seen snakes, whales, … More Australian Stories # 1 – Before the magpie sung me up.
The purple flower fits exactly the heavy bee whose little body, swerving like a drunkard on a string, can yet land in exactly the right way to please her. He opens her slightly, she shakes her head then quits her pouting. A gasp; she quivers. The bee drives on and, fully embraced in the throat … More The heavy bee