Polly

Polly sits in the orange chair on my veranda. All shambolic despite the suit. The grit of her day slips away between the cracks of the vinyl.

Egret Island

the green glints in the last light on the eastern side of the bitumen tar road white line running all the way south to the bottom of the country (where should there be a nuclear war we’d all be safest because the prevailing winds will save us from the deadly fog of destruction and slow death). one hundred kilometres an hour and the car hums along us on cheap sheep skin seats with orange peel and empty beer bottles as detritus. i’m looking for old landmarks this road is well traveled (i listen for memories of a baby perfect rose skin to begin crying for my milk and my foot itchy to keep going to get to the green green paddocks and peace of bush home after days with my mum her grandma and city smells and shopping centres and well meaning advice) where is the nursery sign, the famous nursery filled with heriatge plans forgotton breeds of apple trees, hyacinth bulbs? not there anymore. black water, the hill casts a shadow so the white egrets covering the mud island have grey wings (on the shady western side of the road). they launch in finding space amongst their own flying up and others landing like bees coming home and the others leaving for the hive. spots of last light change pieces of the hundred year old grass from  grey to verdant green. the cow’s who’s backbones make this countryside move more quickly and actively sopping up the last minutes of daylight as if sensing their last breath, realising their fate. two lock horns a spectacular last dance.

gift wrapped

i said i wanted life presented to me on a plate. gift wrapped (american style in a box with a shiny bow). i thought i didn’t have that. i do.

lucky me.

lash

this eye

with lashes

is my daughter’s

gold beautiful durable hard and soft

all at once