After my blog post last week which presented a connection to Australian artist Arthur Boyd, I was inspired to produce this short piece of creative writing. The narrative follows a memory of walking my dog in Bundanon; an Australian landscape surrounding Arthur Boyds studio.
The sleepy river murmurs low as it sweeps out to the sea in a vanishing flatness, and dotted down its lush and sunburnt banks ran a grand galvanized-iron town. Distinctly smelling of lawnmowers and steaming hose-water on hot bitumen. The dog and I spent the sticky afternoon lapping at the hose with an outstretched tongue, hot sun on thick black denim soaking through dirty rolled up jeans. Stirred by the ebb of the water we took off upon it shoulder. A river carved by tide and ranges, tromping knee deep in crackling grass towards the cool bank we could call our own. Around crooked bends and stretching ways, the dog picked up scattered sticks along the brim in his wet foaming mouth. The further we travelled the more feverish he became. Nostrils flaring, inhaling and exhaling as he picked up he scent of the water. He bounded ahead, urging me to come quick, shaking down grass and shrubs, no fear of brown snakes.
I crawled down through a split boulder and landed on shady sand. The dog was already on the shore. Still. Panting. Parting clouds threw sunshine onto grey and gold water like heavy-handed brush strokes. We stood in the ghostly silence. The call of an Eastern whip bird broke the undisturbed air. The dog looked at me for a command. “Cooee!” I bellowed. Tongue out, he thundered down the beach, leaped from the bank and crashed down into the cool tea tree stained water. His splash rippled across the river and made waves on the other side. Gleefully the dog sloshed back up to my side to shake his sopping fur.
This was our spot.