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by Peter Groves We may have scaled them, said that they are conquered, measured and accounted for but it is beneath them we live. Beneath them lies our history. Beneath them we have tried to order nature to pursue our…

by Hannah Borrell Sun burns low— light spills across cracked orange soil. Soft paws move, toughened by the canvas and distance. Kookaburras tittle-tattle in the high limbs. A ripple stirs the still edge of the billabong. The wild gossips— never…

by Mitch Browne Cast me from the Tallawalla lookout, so I can become there, and you can visit. Flowering gums hang snakeskin bunting. Parrots preach Eocene through the mist. Bowerbirds stage a blue revue as a fox tail flares then…

by Glenn McPherson Escaping light like a torch shone From inside the dark cavity of a skull – The city at night. Dreaming teeth out And other, less satisfying anarchists Our husband bodies Nudge against something hard, Harboured as they…

by Colleen Keating It is a new story this morning trekking the sand dunes of Karagi Point. The air elated by insistent flapping wings and constant chirping. In past summers the air muted diving to protect the young less with…

by Ross Jackson How well can I imagine this real place— Oodnadatta? work with me… just Datta to the locals maybe that speck on a vast tawny rag seen from the window of a plane or from a wedged tailed…

by Mike Greenacre for Jean and Dorothy Though ten years separates them, their working-class upbringing from the late 20s to 30s connected these two teenagers from opposite sides of the globe. Jean was a Tom Boy in London’s East End,…

by Andrew Davis Drooping Faded Brazen breeze Beating rays Arcing River cycles Sun drifting Dew’s caress Resting Peering Floating plains Gentle Trees Life Scarred Cycled Tossed This earth Wandering Untiring Covering Continues Splendid Disappearing

by Colleen Keating Bursts of yellow, red grevilleas, white hakea, others I cannot name weaving in and out of pink clover grasses, dandelion, daisies. They’ve blown in through time and toil to edge cliff ledges it has pounded for millennia.…

by Michael Buckingham Gray the night is stone cold but here you are on the club’s stage, lifting up your microphone to a group of grey hairs. you pinch yourself finding it hard to believe you are still here. you…