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An understory

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An understory
An understory
  Under the slanting light of an early Brisbane morning, a small girl stood on a wicker chair. Her face was pressed close to a cushion and all the while her index finger traced the fabric’s detail with a curious intensity.
  

At that moment, I ceased my clatter and simply watched Jen standing there, dressed in her red coat. This memory of my daughter from eighteen years ago has stuck with me. It is an image that remains in my mind just so and with it, a sense of awe that I was seeing the world as she did.
 

 

There is oddity and a charmingly weird rationale to how a child sees the world; not only by the nature of that perception but the meaning that they derive from it. I have carried my own such perceptions, childish or otherwise, around for nearly a lifetime; this collected imagery.

These are the things whose value you only realize after the fact … but the fact that you remember them tells you all you need to know. A thought expressed in picture form which reaches you via the window, the cat-flap or the skylight, rather than the front door.
 

 

Poetry often enters through the window of irrelevancy (M.C.Richards).

 

 

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