Footy ground
As a child born to boom in post war optimism, my secret messenger, my early confidant was the Running Postman, flashes of red flowers on the sandy earth beneath my bare feet.
Kennedia Prostrata shared my solitude, my secrets, my joy at being alone in nature. It was in these heath gardens of my childhood that I entered a pact with nature.The suburban gods held no sway with my heart, I was sworn to the adulation of the natural world.
I recently visited old mate the running postman, still in the company of Greenhood and Correa. We shared our old secrets and knew the time had passed. The boom has reverberated and is shaking the ground, the sky is cut to pieces and the clouds have become teasers. Fluffy white fake news.
The Postman tells me quietly that the message is unchanged, down close to the sandy soil, little red seeds hold tomorrow's mail, the ways of humankind are slippery and reactive, risk takers seeking profit and power, denying culpability on the scales of existence. There are layers on the land.
Beneath the cultured paths of botanic gardens lay the wetlands of croaking frogs.
Below the footy grounds lay the fallow of the yam fields.