supporting local Artists
supporting local Artists
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…
by HAZEL HALL i stand on the back tray of the old army truck grasping the rail with my sisters and cousins singing Uncle has wound his window up — cans are roped beside me the tray is earth, and…
by KELLY ASMUSSEN At night she walks – hobbling through the centre of town, recognising those who pass. Early on park benches, she sits and ponders, and smiles when she finds an eye – each encounter she knows. Afternoons rimming…
by TONY STEVEN WILLIAMS Breathless morning, a flotation of fog, my nostrils lemon cool, fresh and vibrant. Lake George is shrouded, but I see plenty closer by from my hilltop vantage; especially vines: autumn-gold, destined for leaf fall. The hills…
by CHARNTEL CLEVELAND This home, it holds me. It heaves when I say I’m leaving. Halls lean in, stalling me, stained wallpaper restraining. Steam beads bathroom mirrors like a panicked brow. Desperate floorboards creak, bleating my name as I walk,…
by MICHAEL BUCKINGHAM GRAY set free from a steel cage set free from the settlement flying over the flatlands feeding, breeding, settling by a shrinking waterhole. swinging back after the sun has set. settling, settling by a steel dog bowl.
by MARIA BONAR At dawn the stag appears on the misty hill near Loch Leven I watch silently from my window until he bolts I fancy I hear the prayers of a captive queen echoing down the years from the…