Els van Leeuwen
After the Fire
None of us ever touched the bottom of the creek that lay in that valley. We dived and tried from time to time, but it was cold down there. Better splashing in the sun-warmed surface, caked in the silky mud we scraped from the banks and let dry on our skin before jumping in.
At night we would walk in the moonlight through the whispering bushland. Later she would marvel, over coffee back in the city, ‘it was like walking through a black and white photograph!’ – her artist’s eye laying a claim on my own chromatic memory.
After the fire she went back, wandering around in the ashes looking for colour. The hut she had made of old doors and windows was utterly gone. The only marvel she brought home was our box of toy cars - a misshapen lump of lead.
the blue stain
in a mushroom