Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Sudern Winterspiele

It's the mid winter in Melbourne that is at it's most stark.  The furs growing slower to shed their lush greenery with the warming seasons finally skeletal against the steely sky.  At least it isn't windy, yet.  So many shades of grey from the horison to the horison.
Snow above 600 metres, the mountain passes shut.  Cloud obscures the near wilds and the rain seems omnipresent.  A far cry from the El Nino.  The blue sky winters and dry cracked lips winds from the chilled drylands but a memory.  The winters of my youth were spent in the bush, small fires on the pancake rocks that would have once held corroborees and gatherings, where the bones of the earth had stretched too hard at it's own porous skin and laid bare to see.  Weathered gums from the paddocks where we would occaissonally overturn stone axes and implements from the stewards before.  Coastal Sub Tropical, with smatterings of Temperate just to dismay the fruit farmers. 
They would be burning the sugar can this time of year there now.  Before the grass was cut green.  Giant flumes rising up into the night, roaring and sucking at the air. Bodies of the dead would sizzle into the night after the rush of heat.  When the prospect of green harversting was first introduced to the imaginings of the locals it was faced with downright refusal. " the valley will fill with rats, and we will be overrun"  one of the well known of the fears of green cutting.  Now nearly all cane is green harvested and the town is far from overrun by rodents, rats of another kind came however.
After a big fire when the wind was right ash sprials of the cane leaves would coat the house.  The smell of the roasted sugar stalk unlike any smell on earth.  Mechanical developments followed the green change and thrash and dry leaves devoured into the widestretched arms of the harvesting machine.
In Melbourne local trees that overhang the laneways droop with what looks like a one in three Mandarine crop. The skins fiery with acid and the wind cold fruit full of tang and bite.  beyond the basalt stone laneways are the criss crosses of mostly avoided bitumen.  horizontal lines of roller doors punctuate the corrugated fences like numbers divide a page. function = function.  suburban equilibrium. keq

footseps into the unbekannt
a person looks at a paragraph and develops beside it


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