Martin Harrison

A vague mood, a sadness, a feeling as when recovering from illness, a kind of ‘whatever it is which is going on at the time’ mode –

a defile bulldozered between trees where the power-lines go through on a ridge top, their suspended wires as out of place as a street’s tramwires would be,

while, momentarily, the cut-out shape on the skyline (a trough shape on the crest...

For Robert Adamson

A blue smear bulges over the ridge; there’s the counterpoint as well of shine on white-hot duco glimpsed on the ute

parked outside on the driveway. It blinds its surrounds with a surfboard beach-effect. It’s as ominous as the Mary Celeste – it looks

lonely, isolated parked there, brilliant in tinfoil sharpness of afternoon light. If this were Ireland, it...