Some of my latest writing

9. Apr, 2020

It is cool here - above the plain.
The massive gums reach skyward
A hundred metres more,
Their dappled bark peeling to the forest floor
Where the tree ferns sprout in green abundance.
The forest is open in its search for light
And the new tree ferns rise up in lacy filigree.
The new fern tips - we call them korus -
Unfurling into the magestic light
Pale green against the instensity of the blue sky above.
So different to my New Zealand bush
And yet, the same somehow
Quiet and deep and sheltering.
This is an Australia I have not seen before.
It is full of silent beauty, settled cool depth
The bush silence broken only by the bird song.
Raucous bird song here
Not like the tui and the keruru at home.
And yet, somehow they fit.
This is a harsh country
And the Dandenongs are a soft spot
Hidden in the midst of raw plains
Like the soft underbelly of s spiny anteater.
Dandenong - who knows what it means?
Houses, cafes, tiny villages
Nestle along the road
Under the tall eucalypts.
But it is not these that we have come to see.
We have come to find The Sanctuary
Created by love and hardwork and vision.
Created by William Ricketts.
Within the cool untouched area
Of the highland forest he laboured
He moulded clay and formed immense walls
Spiritual, thought provoking, instuctural
Blending the Aboriginal laws with those of his
Christian upbringing and his mystic Indian adventure.
Mindful, even then, to leave to forest untouched.
The forest untouched that touches that place within each of us
That seeks what he has left here


9. Apr, 2020

Is it just a craft?
Or is it woman's art?
Is it just utilitarian?
Or is it messages within the cloth?
The thread and textile flows
From my thoughts and through my fingers
Colour, Pattern, texture
Emerging from my mind,
Manifesting in the piece,
Part of an account of history
That has gone before.
It began with thrift and necessity
To keep loved ones warm
Patterns, styles, stitches
Forbidden frippery - art in the patterns.
Expresions of suppressed creativity.
Art was not a profession to encourage.
Create the stitches - keep to the rules
Learn by samplers, learn like school.
And yet - the quilts emerged and morphed
Subtle variations, subtle changes to the rule
Individual, not contained, textured
Flamboyant - never the same.
Messages hidden in the Negro railway quilts
Or from the Shangi prison spreads.
Innocence in their utility hides
A much deeper process for those whose minds fly wide
To the possibilities that the stitches contain.
The thread and textiles flow
From my thoughts and through my fingers
Colour, pattern, texture
Emerging from my mind.
Linking with a heritage
From unknown, unclaimed women
Who have gone before.
This is my birthright, 
This is their gift.
Not mere utility or priceless thrift.
The modern world so busy being busy
Overlooks the secrets in the quilts.
As the thread and textiles flow 
From my thoughts and through my fingers,
Colour, pattern texture
Emerge from within my mind.


9. Mar, 2018

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness"

Remembered from my days of Keats' classroom poetry.

Dare I comment in the way the masters spoke

Of how this season shows its face

And brings us to a resting place.

The fruits have used the Summer sun

To grow plump and sweet on tree and vine

Now it is time to harvest

And enjoy their fresh full flavours.

Midday can still bring strength of sun

But morn and eve are Winter's chill reminder

It is a glorious season.

The trees tired from their Summer garb

Dry out their leaves and paint them in fireglow.

Nuts swell in their pods

And seeds disperse in the wild flower fields.

Nature has come full cycle - like a pregnant woman.

Now she must seal the seeds that will bring new life in Spring

1. Mar, 2018
14. Aug, 2017

This is a poem I wrote in the Summer and with the wet winter we are experiencing in New Zealand this year it seemed pertinent to type it here as we wait for longer days and clear sunny weather.


The Summer sun streams down

I am surrounded by the cicada's song

Incessant, hidden, sireptious

They care not that their life is short.

They live for the moment

Basking in the sun

Singing their repitious sonata.

Some days my head is too full of their music.

It drowns out my thoughts as I sit in the shade.

Too soon the summer sun will be gone

And with it the cicade sounds.

Winter will take hold.

The sun will be but a pale shadow or her self

And I will sit in coat and cap

Longing for the warmth of Summer.