2014 – present
1/4 acre block
Asbestos shack. Rostered habitat for the Gang of 8.The women’s house. The l.e.s.b.i.a.n. house. Ohhhhh that house. That’s 2×4. No. 2×2 + 4×1. Or. 8×1. So confusing for thine delicate sensibilities of the dark ages. But it’s so much more than that. Extras. Separations. Such a blast. Especially when the bombs drop, which today they did. The weapons range. And maybe the land will explode and crack and swallow us whole. And here we are. Shacks waiting in rows to be claimed by the sea. Row by row. Eventually it will, claim us. But we might not be there … anymore. Behind the dune, waiting for the powerful northerlies to bite. Full moon. If only we could float like ducks. Instead we’re sitting ducks. But make no mistake. This is paradise. It’s beauty is natural to be sure. A land maintained by ironies. Headline: preparations for war save coastal town. Two creek mouths. Mouths talking from each end of the beach. Old-timer talk, celebrity talk, fishing talk, money talk, war talk. One drinks and spews emerald from tide to tide. The other, Plutus – God of Wealth – puckers, purses, quivers. He yawns, licks lips curl. He parts, sucks and bites. His mouth is full of bread. Dry. He blows crumbs until the rain comes and the tea stained waters flow. Ah. Jon Jon and Moo. A confluence of sand, sea and ash. Of barks and joy. Of sticks and splashes. Of circles and beelines. Rest well dear dogs. And while they rest and follow scents the crabs will work. Excavating, every single tide of every single day. For meaning? Tiny balls of nature’s wisdom. Sand dragged in expressive puffs and flares. Meetings. Blue. Yellow. Red. Green. White. Black. Plutus, God of wealth, beaches paved with plastic. Small, tiny, minute, micro. Imperceptible. Incomprehensible.
Sally Clarke ©2022
Sally Clarke, Sore Eyes, 2021, acrylic paint on vinyl, 30 x 30cm. Photo: Sally Clarke