supporting local Artists
supporting local Artists
by AMANDA ALLAN Climbing: Hooves thump for purchase. Nostrils flare, snorting steam. Snow covered bracken. Tree ferns droop, drip. Summit: Granite boulders capped, fluffy white. Scattered tall gums. Thick chilled cloud, Engulfing view. Stop: Slowing rhythm flanks against legs. Shiver.…
by FRED DUNCAN Tierra del Fuego and the island of Tasmania, Beautiful sisters of the southern seas, Separated forever by the infinite ocean, But joined by the currents of the sea and the sky, And in the icy nights –…
by STEPHANIE POWELL Prologue: The seconds don’t collapse, they linger – like this: she remains one foot on the pavement, one foot on the road taking the morning… With a photo? Or eating hues? The south-easterly entering her open mouth…
by KEVIN GILLAM there’s a wide silence here, bar lines through hours unplayed, pines and, of course, that pylon, island smeared, wind shushing at waves. one gull, high up, comma cut loose, cirrus, summer, shimmer heat with eyes running the…
by ANDREW HEDE She sits alone on a cliff-top staring at the ships and the surfers, meandering in her inner world. An eagle rises slowly on an updraft, scans her with expressionless eyes and slips into her consciousness. Initially, she…
by LYNDAL TURNER There is a place that exists only in darkness, where the streetlights’ shallow pools don’t touch, and the cars we’ve made crouch in the space we’ve made for them. The arc of their backs glitter with tears.…
by RICHARD CLARKE The bell clangs. Take your time… turn right out of the school gates stroll over the railway line turn right again into bustling Amy Street saunter past the station and the Lilliputian library pass the pub and…
by AGI DOBSON The hills quiver in golden light a slight breeze brushes yellow leaves roosting calls of birds gradually cease. With the fading of gold to yellow, pink, then indigo the hills dissolve. The first stars glimmer in a…
by KIM WATERS As the children space-time frisbees on the oval and he stands, a bare-legged blacksmith in a devil’s apron, brandishing tongs, she flails a tartan-tasselled travelling rug, stained with BBQ sauce and bindi eyes, over the bumpy ground.…
by ROHAN BUETTEL In heavy fog we ride the northern border. Man-sized shapes loom in the mist, silent, still, until we close and they turn and bound away. The fence on our left marks the territory boundary, each barb of…