This place here is a liquid garden. That it is made of material is incidental. The rock, the wood, the steel, the leaf and air move like water.
It is liquid when it is relieved from neglect. When it is let go, it moves and comes to life. It needs, responds to care and to being noticed.
Without care, it is dormant.
Each part of it waits to be attended. Each part is a world in waiting, waiting to be stirred into the pot. Each part is a voice in the choir which cannot start until after the role call.
I am carried around, along the current.
The edge is the boundary of the block. The 20 acre pool has a hill, a shed with its ‘arena’, a hill crest with its wooded slopes. It has the dams and the green lowland. There is the other side of the wires with the avenues.
There’s the forest of little trees where the wind doesn’t blow. There is the kangaroo dormitory. There’s the old stables area with it stone ribs exposed.
There’s the shed which is our domain, which, by having no windows looks only in, and in.
There’s the guest caravan, cosy and clean and the back yard with clothes line and compost bin.
All of this is moving and changing. You can drag a rake across any part of it and the the ground blinks. There are fresh blades of grass waiting for air and sun and the opportunity to proliferate.
There are the remains of the dreams of the previous owner everywhere. Everywhere is Cinderella and the sleeping frog.
It’s like a book here. You don’t have to start from where you left off. You can just let it fall open and keep going.