An old farmhouse outback of Angourie,
– rusted iron roof, filagreed wrought-iron lacework around the verandah – floorboards that rebound like bass strings, plasterboards punched out, the murmur of a design meeting. Uproar.
– the stink of resin and the whine of shaping planes outside, dogs roaming through every room, sketches of concaves and convex dynamics littering the floor, surfboards leaning against all the inside walls, in the kitchen a couple local girls are cooking a vegetarian supper, there is the faint whiff of a little mature bushie from the couches out there by the back verandah, the TV is on silent as the weather forecast promises a rising swell from the east. Tasman onions.
Somewhere, a guitar.
Someone wanders away from the house after dinner and finds a dark place to sit and watch the sky for the forecasted change; he is barefoot as he wanders through a long grown lawn suddenly wet with dew caused by the drop in the temperature.
The land is silent here but for the growing rumour of conflict from the sea two miles distant, and he imagines a few favourite places over there to the east, places that are drawing the water back under their shallow footings, then pitching it forward into black throated caverns.
Two yellow-eyed Boobooks watch him walk back into the darkened house, and in a while they resume their soft catch-calling
(the pic: Brock, Greenough, Keyes, McTavish)