poetry

Fog rolls in, smothering the land in metaphors.

When creating a garden you are doing it more for the creatures, large and small, who either live there or use it as a shopping centre, than for yourself who merely uses it for pleasure.

I will never know how the old man kangaroo broke his wrist, what happened to the big spider, where the Little Eagles went, whether the turtle with the broken shell survived, where the echidna moved to, where the wagtails are nesting now, or what happened to the Brown Snake.

Give me a place to stand, and a lever long enough, and I might be able to move enough rock in my garden to plant a tulip bulb.