Inspired by “Dry” by Frances Caruana, in the Peacock Gallery Auburn’s current exhibition Reclaimed-Regeneration, The Southern Print Makers Association.


(Trish Jean)

What would a map of the dry feel like?
Would it crackle at your touch?
Would it change as the dust moves?
And if it did what does that mean
about the temporary nature of things
and destinations,
are they somewhat hidden?
Yet open for discovery? Are they moving too?
Have the pathways altered,
requiring an alteration
in the pathfinders? A new convention.

Is the wind then a gift?
Revelation. Endless alteration.
You would have to ride it wouldn’t you?

And would the map make allowance
for a wet season? And the return
of the potential that transpires with the wet?
Is there space for that?
The noises.
The finding and unfurling.
The absolute overflowing.
it’s what you omit that smells the loudest.

The mapped lines of the leaf
become the waterways.
It darkens the shades
and renews the shapes.
The movement across the map.
Track that. And the touches
of degeneration,
that paint richness as they kill.

Longitude and latitude swimming
tangled on the storied bark.
I want to be tangled too.

Overland and coastal way wend.
What atlas is this I am in?


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