Friday, January 14, 2005


Somewhere just over the tangled bank, over the Chinese Lantern and Lantana smothered shrubbery, and just beyond that little pseudo-cliff, we come across a small pond-let that is anxiously waiting for the rains when it would once more become a stream and cross the small sandbank that hems it, for now, however, the radioactively orange misplaced carp aren't complaining- they glisten in the water and daintily edge past a short-necked turtle that just bubbled its way to the surface. It feels like a forest in here: all the signs are there: the shade , the impossibly barked trees with their quaint aussie names: scribbly bark, black butt, and blue gum, the small winding forest trails with their own sentries of straggly bushes and the odd bird that screeches into the dying day. It's hard to believe that only ten minutes separates this remnant land from the harsh modern lawn-infested campus.