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The shepherd wife has one word for her cosmos – isychia: here is isychia, she tells strangers. Without amenities — no water, electricity — her house clings to a small crease in the hills, a tortoise shell; sea forces strips of blue between the planks of outer walls that have no windows to admit the sky, the hills’ harsh beauty.
I have stared at this photograph of me and Dad for more than five months. The picture was found in Mum’s drawer. After some calculations and contemplations, Mum said I was three years old in the photo. How much can I remember from age three? How far back in time can I go? What I could only do was stare, imagine, and ask questions.
Precipitation before thunder/anticipation in the dusty wings/ premonition & catalyst/excavation site unseen/the poem poised to be written/a treble clef before dancing notes/the dapple around the whisper/a story unbirthed & untold.
Twenty-five years from his death we gather to remember, swapping anecdotes like bank notes weathered in our wallets. The one on how as deputy he’d learn, while pausing in a doorway, the names of all three hundred new Year Sevens in a week. And how when actors failed to show for one of his rehearsals, he’d stride the stage himself.
You are transfixed, steering your car but so captive to the bird’s powerful flight that you could readily follow it as it breaks away and lifts above the forest into the setting sun. Sometimes you do not want it to end. The eagle soars into the light. Away and up into the sky. And here is the corner, down towards the dirt road leading home. You are there.
Real power never changes hands. And yet like a spell, we cast our votes in a ballot box for the same corrupt government.
We might have learned that we can no longer feed on the leaves at the tops of the crowns, but need to bend our long necks, which we carry on our small body and relatively short legs, and we have retrained ourselves to consume the leaves on the lower limbs.
Three people died within ten days of each other in the latter part of September who have gifted great legacies that call for reflection. I find reason to bring them together here in an attempt to highlight the threads that bind them; those of women of influence. Their stories are undoubtedly varied, yet they have all contributed to the broader advancement of women and ultimately, people.
Three plover chicks prow Torkina Park, parents at their helm: their heads alert, their eyes sails. If these were waters, the kookaburra in the grevillea branches above would be a shark.
The river flooded during the battle, surging so wide, so deep, that two days of eager slaughter were postponed. I won't polish away 80 years of tarnish. The brass cartridge still grips its bullet just the way you found it while walking your dogs. A misfire.
Funny, thongs, how they make that thwack thwack noise: Your ten little pistons push off the ground and the earth calls back a little salute, just a nudge, really: I’m here. So…
While I was musing I heard scratching noises, faint, bothersome, at the mind’s edge, rather like mice nibbling and scuttling, or polter-somethings working through the ceiling. Then my nostrils tingled — hints of a smell, or one remembered or imagined.