in the time of creation dreaming -I placed an order for 100 silver perch fingerlings with a fish hatchery on the central coast.
that’s the thing isn’t it we all have a story to tell…
every man every child every sister,
every cloud every drop of rain
so many voices speaking chirping writing singing whistling painting twittering sculpting warbling building growling dancing weaving croaking……
humans love to spin yarns – of conquest and war, love and redemption, pain suffering betrayal loss, courage and honour.
‘other’ Beings don’t have paper or pen laptop or phone,
don’t do human speak,
and yet, they too have a tale to tell…
enter the faerie embassy
narrating the stories on behalf of
who am I to dare this task?
I am earth speaker truth teller heart lover.
I am wind weaving its message in the tree tops.
I am bandicoot riffling thru the garden digging holes.
I am wave smashing against the cliffs polishing history.
I am kookaburra laughing at dawn.
I am wombat scratching my backside against the kurrajong tree.
I am echidna sticking my nose into the ground slurping up ants.
I am cloud scribing events in the sky.
I am magpie in the red gum, head tilted back, warbling a melody.
I am the voice of woman born
who stumbled into the 70’s clutching the pill,
into the 80’s holding hands with the goddess,
into the 90’s neck deep in mothering.
and into the 21st century
with a mission…
a voice for ‘other’
the spider and the web,
the wallaby and the whip bird,
the forest and the river.
it is midwinter and a diamond python has shed its skin in the lemon verbena.
the swallows have returned, they chatter about renovations as they check out the nests high up on the mud wall outside the kitchen .
the white naped and the yellow earred honeyeaters have also returned coming into the tank for a quick dip and feather ruffle on nearby branch.
the grey shrike thrush has struck up its spring song – a rich varied melody flowing thru our house and garden.
the ‘thing’ that has been turning over our kitchen yard for weeks has finally been identified- not a wild pig not lyrebirds.
the other night under torchlight we saw the wombat scratching and digging up the kikuyu – is it eating the roots we wonder?
we recognise him , he is the orphan baby that came into our home to be cared for by the Daughter Elsie until at two years of age in full adolescent phase he wandered off into the forest to have a life.
goodness she did well as mum because he is huge now and taken to very vigorous landscaping though it all looks a bit of a mess to me.
every story is a treasure discovered
a gift received
a commonality shared,
human whale rock platypus snake maiden fern robin
deeply exploring the earth domain.