There’s a hut near the coast, with sugar gliders and eucalyptus cud clogging the eaves. The soil there is rich and loamy - I could smell it, and taste that smell too. It tasted like salt dough and beets. Imagine if we sold our

- Clothes and
- Bicycles and
- Your grandmother’s rings and

We grew a life there

Imagine it; we just need the seeds

- A wattle tree, gold and light like a wedding band, embracing the pipe
- Beds of bottlebrush flowers, red like heartstrings and possum guts
- The ghost gum - pale, she has stories to tell
- Old man elm, wizened and mottled like our last apple crop (so sweet)
- Mandrake-sons we raised from saplings. Ugly, but we love them
- Daisies… satin-skirted daisies. Seafoam green and flaxen blue and the richest mulberry wine
- Remember that one, Essie. Daisies and daisies and daisies

And then lavender


PS I haven’t forgiven you for eating the last of the riberries. You knew I was saving them for jamming season. But I still love you