Share their motion in one sphere.

Thomas Wainewright collection, TMAG.

When we run out of things to say

Paradise Lost: The Boudoir

Thomas Wainewright Collection, TMAG

Who pent up the sea behind closed doors
 when it leapt tumultuous out of the womb,
when I wrapped it in a robe of mist
 and made black clouds its swaddling bands;
when I marked the bounds it was not to cross
 and made it fast with a bolted gate?
Come thus far, I said, and no farther:
 here your proud waves shall break. – Job

Here I am
Hiding in plain sight 
Made myself invisible 
To conserve my being
Every time
You took your leave
My heart would grieve

Her far off look spoke silently
She chose to suffer for love

Allport Library and Museum of Fine Arts, Tasmania

A lightness, a dance
Is all that romance
An evening discourse
If you happen to chance

The swaying of trees
Is all that is needed
Just floating in air
For us to be pleased

Ne'er break nor bruise
But growing from roots
Don't save for a vase
Or petals removed

No pruning shears
Large hands severe
To repot or sprout 
Our tender shoots out

Grow wild on our plain
Only sun, moon and rain
To cover us over 
For love will remain

Can't turn round
Nor go back
Burke and Wills track
Pride takes us on

Spreading sun 
Wind and rain
Spreading seeds
Some in vain

Quiet resting place
Long nourished 
Always known
Local natives
Wildlife grown

Is such a place
For a wild exotic
Blown in
From afar

Do you know where you are?