The land stands breathing in colour, a quiet blaze beneath an open sky. Trunks rise like bones warmed by fire, their bark split into ribbons of rust and rose, reaching upward with a patient, weathered grace. Leaves gather in dark, hovering masses, as if the wind paused mid-thought and never quite finished speaking. The sky is not distant here—it presses close, thick with blue and scraped with light, carrying the memory of heat and long afternoons.
Brushstrokes move like footsteps across the ground, uneven, deliberate, alive. Ochres and greens bleed into one another, suggesting grass that crackles underfoot and soil that remembers rain only as a rumour. Nothing is still, yet nothing rushes. The trees lean and listen, witnesses to time measured not in hours but in seasons, fires, and return. In this painted outback, resilience is not heroic—it is simply how the land continues to stand, glowing quietly in its own enduring voice.
Port Macquarie