Slight sight.

Winter is a time of reduction. And a time of volume, the volume of water.          

Mulberry shoots out of nothing.                          

A fire in winter - Eucalyptus Caesia.

Ipheion, so shy, yet profuse.

Wire, shadows, faded dandelion, Eucalypt, blondeness.

 

Jonquil, a song heard in the emptiness...

A sprig. Valiant Pittosporum

The noble iris, waving its flag, a victor.

A bottle of water and wattle in the bottle.

Up, Up and Away...

The mornings are cold and crisp. Though technically this is the middle of winter, new life is already revving upward.

Occasional blue skies ( 16 - 18 degrees Celsius in Melbourne today ) lift the eyes and pump the sap more keenly.

These Eucalypts in my garden already have new growth. You don't want to waste an opportunity, eh?

A lack of uniformity makes each an individual.

The canopy reaches higher and higher...

...here some she-oaks ( Allocasuarina species ) in the front garden twist themselves to the light, as if waving to it.

Here's what they look like in a group - shaggy and sketchy. There's a wonderful hush under them when the wind blows.

Back to a couple of Eucalypts, above, at the front of the house. When limbs are severed, many are able to form scar tissue...

...nothing can stop the movement onward and upward.

Falling through the Roof

Your foot falls into the bowl of all I am needing, here

among the overlapping pinks, and the greening lapping over.

The spaces around me are become huge, then narrow. You, like honey,

glaze these nightmares. Knowing you're with me through this jungle of  clouds and their clashing

gives back to me my standing and the flowers of my standing, profuse. 

You pretend not to notice my sins. All that you see is a kernel of good in me, which had flown down though many roofs, and could not have stopped falling

without the loyalty you give me, which holds me

and knots me into place, beside your mellowness.

On  this golden ground, I sense you are the gardener this garden yearns for,

the gardener who allows me space, yet the reassurance of enclosure.

You give me more than a roof, through which I need no longer fall. You give me a nest and a bower.

For my florist from Mount Macedon.

A Bit on the Side

I have nothing better to do, day in, day out, than assemble exteriors.

The spade  is a symbol of hard labour, green the colour of naivety.

This, actually, is my computer desk. Being so high that I've been hunching over it in an elderly fashion, I decided to lop some of its legs off.

I had, thus, an excellent opportunity to waste a morning giving it a new purpose.

There are things here I have no idea of the name of. Oh so careless, Faisal, but I do prefer colour to remembering data.

Silver-blue, blood-tan, old steel, purple-grey, slime-lime.

There was grass to be cut, there were weeds to be pulled, cobwebs to be banished, a pear and red wine jelly to be made. But time, surely, is sometimes expendable.

And I waste it like no-one I know.

If the world were hard at it making art, there'd be no time for war...

thus, in the creation of art or design, what matters is the harmonic embodiment of feeling, not the will to impose thought, or the thinking to impose will.

It's said that it's dangerous to throw time away, not to accomplish acts of influence, of power...

but I shy away from my own significance. Existence, and the light within which it is held, is far more real.