Kent Robinson
an iron bark fire, we snuggle within the warmth in the hills a first star twinkles through frost and all the trees are aflame Bathurst willy wags his tail in the wattle through midday heat the somnolent drone of bees…
Baw Baw Arts Alliance
supporting local Artists
Baw Baw Arts Alliance
supporting local Artists
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Keitha Keyes
holidays … back to our weekender to the smells of wet swimming costumes and sand between our toes the storm is over … on the leaf-strewn lawn the body of a naked chick with no sign of its nest back…
Jan O’Loughlin
this bushland has its spring surprises tiny wildflowers in purple and yellow and fresh black snake scat swollen river littered with toppled trees and flood debris at dusk the glint of fractured light rock scrambling we pit our wits against…
Hemat Malak
blue hedge of plumbago cut tall with pruner forgotten on the ground long shadows take it at Picton the smell of guano screeches of flying foxes and their neighbours waves forming again and again in a blue rip we stand…
Heather McRae
I chose the wrong walk sun on the other point Somers in shade then, the tiny plovers pattering at high tide mark Mornington Peninsula, Vic seen in an art show Kakadu Escarpment lush green, strand of blue climbing up rock…
Hazel Hall
Asleep a tanka string from Shady Creek, Yarragon, 1952 my cousin slumps like a little kitten fast asleep in this ancient high chair by the wood fire stove skin like milk and bare legs dangling when awake his starry eyes ignite…
Gwen Bitti
white geese concealed in sludge search for food on the crumbling riverbank …plight of the homeless Macleay River, Kempsey, NSW thrashed the precipice degenerates a swirling surge gathering up fragments… one can be whole again Australia – coastline
Gregory Piko
quiet stream . . . inside the monastery a monk runs down timber stairs in soft leather slippers Eiheiji Temple, Japan
Glenn McPherson
soon I will check for mail next door a couple fighting guitar strings sounding now summer clouds returning without colour
Gavin Austin
distance in my mother’s eyes . . . again she roams those wattle-scented hills remote and untameable in her favourite chair she recalls the sound of the stream that shadow-filled gully where the bellbirds toll she rearranges roses in a…