supporting local Artists
supporting local Artists
by FRED DUNCAN Today we harvest the olives. The trees are heavy with fruit, Green and purple, crimson and black, Like pearls with their lustre, Absorbing and reflecting the autumn sun. Our fingers like crabs, Combing the silvery leaves, Searching…
by PETER ROBERTS She was never fooled by his parting kiss. When he was out it was easier on her and us – the neighbours. No screeching arguments or smashing of vases and worse. Her sobbing breaking the calm of…
by ALLEYNE HALL From my father’s war diary, 4 August 1917: Sergeant Leslie John Hall I feel terrible – I can’t explain! Will I see my wife and child ever again? My thoughts never leave them: their faces are always…
by JO McINERNEY Noise and smell, the dip and rattle of trams on tracks set in bumpy tar. The clang of bells and swell of voices in a lingo grim-faced women did not approve. The language of the Pope but…
by MARILYN HUMBERT From the porch the grey light of dawn bruises limbs heavy from restless sleep: night unable to quell yesterday’s heat. A kookaburra’s dry-throated croak echoes as the sun’s flames lick the horizon. Over the fence three thin-ribbed…
by AMANDA ALLAN Deep indigo, bright crimson, Gold lined auburn. Mirrored perfectly, By wet sand and sea. Mauve mountains beyond. Chill, damp salty air. Crisp. Cool dry sand engulfs my feet. Dog and I entranced, Mesmerised. Incredible. Stare, photograph. Brilliant…
by GREGORY PIKO (16 January 1995, after the avalanche) searching for life under rubble under ice under darkness the team struggles in from the blizzard collapsing seeing at last the fear in the eyes of the rescue dog
by SUZI MEZEI The window boasts white hot constellations that jar wakeful eyes, brazen glare exposes all that’s moored to our suburban plot: the trunks of scribbly gums etched in secret arboreal script, the neighbour’s sharp-eared terriers, listless at fenced…
by ROSS JACKSON Usually solo hikers, diffident by nature, they trudge in line each one eyeing the ground on the trail ahead for the first hour or two— the only sign of individuality is in diverse patterns of their boot…
by JEREMY GADD Here come the squalls, obscuring and hiding all behind vertical wet walls. Like shower curtains hung from low slung clouds, sensuously oscillating grey shades of spray cut silent swathes across the breadth of the bay, akin to…