Winter here is green. No snow, or if it ever did, the record is lost in the annals of legend. Almost imperceptible, the winter grasses sprout amongst last year’s greying wheat stubble.

winter grass sprouts

I steep the Matcha for exactly

three minutes

©️sbwright2023

We tour the region north of Goyder’s line and it hits me that here is a foreshadowing of the climate crisis to come; townships that used to house 600 were reduced to a couple of aged and cracking official buildings, monuments to human hubris. For sure, technology ensured that the regions were populated again but I’m not sure if we learned anything.

cracked ashphalt

a pepper tree sprouts

in centre court

©️sbwright2023

She’s hidden her egg sack in the needles of a pine branch, a pale yellow susuwatari. A few golden strands of her web have snapped and congealed into a larger, tangled one. The larder appears full, two strings of “black pearls”.

the orb weaver

sitting motionless for days

nothing gold can stay

©️sbwright2023

Right now, my wife is teaching herself to play Keane’s, Somewhere Only We Know, on the concert grand. She’s probably frustrated she’s not getting it perfect, but something in that imperfection, in reaching for the right notes, generates an overwhelming sense of yūgen.

love’s labour

between the notes a single tear

rolls down my cheek

©️sbwright2023