All's well

Canungra

Canungra

Canungra

Canungra

Canungra

Canungra

We left the dishes in the sink and the beds unmade and drove to the country to visit friends yesterday. The journey is always picturesque. The colours and the shapes seem uniquely Australian. The land flattens out. Houses become scarce and are replaced by trees and cattle. Mountains rise up, then after a bend in the road, seem to surround you. Here and there are weathered buildings, farming relics, hand made signs for manure, fruit, eggs or firewood. The sign posts are also worthy of note. Bannockburn. Shaws Pocket Rd. Black Soil Gully. Wonglepong. Bennoble. Boyland. Poetic names indeed. In a little under an hour we arrived in the small town of Canungra.

In the garden, and in the kitchen, there are reunions, talk and laughter. The children play while we drink tea. We wait for bread to bake and tend to the babies. We sit and talk of seasons, childhood, making, growing, building and the energy and possibilities building up towards Spring. We walk through the orchard and see it's potential. Examine the veggie garden for beauty and practicality. We realise that we've been friends since Cohen was the same age that Emerson is. We fill my car with fruit and plant cuttings before I leave. 

On the way home a loose grapefruit rolls around in my boot, bruising geranium leaves. Before my camera battery dies I pull over and snap a few photos. I stop again at a driveway stall. I heave bags of manure into my boot before continuing home with plans to work in my own garden. Both children are sleeping, all I can smell is geranium and Spring is not far off. For a moment all's well with the world.

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