Every time I see a crocus, I feel sad. So sweet and blue: it is no-one's favourite bloom and never the crown jewel of a garden. Florists never include it in their arrangements. Few artists paint it. And rarely has there been a poem or even a limerick to honour this poor little flower. The …
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Survival
Fiction: ‘Lyrebird’
She pokes her head out of the nest and looks up at the sky. It’s so blue that it looks violet against the sun. Light spills off the gum leaves that ripple in the breeze high above, while down below the ground is a crosshatch of stringy bark. She withdraws back inside the safety of ...
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Fiction: ‘Winter Flowers’
The ice advances steadily, encroaching upon the land like the rise of floodwaters. Crystal after crystal forms an icy crust upon the ground. Even the leaves on all the trees that refuse to shed their plumage for the winter are preserved in transparent cocoons. Every once in a while you can hear them tinkle as ...
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