After wild fire, the Australian bush seems to sleep for awhile and then in extraordinary profusion, everything begins to grow again. Epicormic buds hidden deep beneath the bark of trees spring into red leaf, and under the sterile ash bed, vigorous shoots of chartreuse green and pink become the new forest that rises up from the ashes to cloak the landscape in a mantle of silvery, grey green trees. And so, as I am steeped in all of this beautiful, wonderful, arid place of extremes, this binding of soul and the earth, of words and images, that tell it as it was and as it is, becomes my story. As you sleep, I burn.
Here, at Tumbledown, it is I who am owned by the forest.