Sun-down at Manning Park in Hamilton Hill. The paperbarks are like palimpsests of what? Themselves. Ragged sheaves of paper flapping in the breeze, stroked by warm evening light. A tangle of twisting trunks dancing over the mirror of swamp water beneath. I approach and my eyes are filled with dimensions and shadows. Memories of an eight year old me, twisting agile limbs along half-submerged logs, over swampy fringe of Manning Lake, into adventure. Memories of lighting out for the territory as an inquisitive clamberer. The evening light pours rich tones into the well-watered, water-fowled ecosystem before me.
As a young boy in South Fremantle I swung my frame up the dark coloured bark of peppermint trees in our park, and found myself sitting in secret aeries, redolent of minty leaves, thick odour of the tree in my nose. Relishing the smell, sitting up there, held by something. The mystery of timber bigger than artifacts immutably solid beneath foot.