supporting local Artists
supporting local Artists
by YVETTE STUBBS The birds are restless again a haze of smoke smudges the mountains crows fly with starlings curtaining the air with feathered fear where is the fire? Are they doing controlled burnings near? I am restless now Birds…
by YVETTE STUBBS Night owls prowl It’s snowing in Scotland The sky is black I watch house hunters abroad on mute Timer to go off in 60 minutes It stops the chatter in my bones It’s night Cicadas rasp their…
by PAT SAUNDERS bream bite when the tide is high the tranquil river mouth gasps for air kissing the rapacious windy wild sea its swollen banks our sunlounge as we patiently await the serendipitous nibble the line requires little weight…
by PAT SAUNDERS dad’s calm hand clutches mine his southern british lilt coaxes tiny crawling snail-like me onto ancient timber planks beneath which grasping wind and wild water wait to swallow me look up he says I baulk glimpsing whitewash…
by PAT SAUNDERS I step forward without looking feet float arms flail head somersaults swim through air the world spins more than once colours slomo stretch endlessly ears hear nothing not a sound landing’s hard butt and hip hurt badly…
by JANEEN SAMUEL In this place is silence: would that the world could listen and be so still. There is no stirring of trees nor grasses; the pale-eyed lizard either is motionless or swift as a flicker of thought –…
by MARGARET OWEN RUCKERT where forests of strap-plants, edge-loving land-dwellers, conceal the swamp beyond & vie for space like flags in a crowd. No rationing of water or sun in paradise. Water is tropical here, but rarely topical. A bow…
by MARGARET OWEN RUCKERT I’m walking the edge of a sleepy river slapping its sides like a cool bass player jazz at sunset, songs in the air horns and wood, winds over water. Mike’s antique piano smooches and honks…
by PETER ROBERTS The great rivers of East Gippsland pass by like an avenue of honour. Nicholson, Mitchell, Tambo, Snowy, Bemm and more. It is their determination we admire most – to cut through rock and clay, taking no backward…
by PETER ROBERTS We are all refugees. His pipe etched a halo of Champion Ruby fumes that even the blast of the Roaring Forties couldn’t displace. Why did she leave him? Rising, he paused to watch the fairy prions and…