Following a road through farmlands of dry yellow grass I catch glimpses of a river but there seems no way to get to it. Just when I am about to give up I see a rough dirt track veering off towards a line of trees. Steering my little car between the ruts I bounce along to a point where the road disappeared down a steep incline. Sensing mystery I leave my car and continue on foot.
The track winds down to an area of bushland. A sign tells me the area was regenerated some years previously by a local fly fisherman’s club. The trees close in around me and the little creek gurgles its way over the rocks to a meet a wider river.
I walk to the water’s edge and listen to the messages sounding in the water as it tinkles over the stones –
Looking upriver I see that perspective had vanished into a metaphor of itself and become a place to be reached in dreams –