Peat Island , Hawkesbury River,(Scents)(Prayers)(Tagore)

Peat Island on the sparkling Hawkesbury River has had a dark history. It now sits there like a deep dark well awaiting its new destiny.

Thanks to Myff Sharp and Peter Davis of Red Fish Gallery in Brooklyn, we artists get a chance to visit occasionally. We recently had an open day. It always inspires words. Here they are.

First the River Pictures shown at end

Bridge by Wynne finalist Dave Collins

Island by meticulous Peter Zanetti

Black and White photograph by internationally renowned Juno Gemes

Riverview by Mel Anderson

A picture of my work as displayed… …to make it easier to read words close up follows

Peat Island, Prayers, Scents, and Tagore

She faces the Hawkesbury River, she kneels, she utters “our father who art in heaven”. This is her 1501st day on Peat Island. Bleach from her clothes makes her cough. Red blood stains on her  blouse
Somehow he can bring his hands together even though his fingers hurt. They pulled his nails out. Chloroform from that orange can still lingers
Rosary beads lie on her bed The brown contrasts with the yellow of the spread. She can smell the gravy from the lunch she was forced to miss
On this muggy night he can smell the mangroves on the river. He can’t see being tied to the bed. He says 7 Hail Marys as his mother had taught him
Sunday incense in the chapel fails to remove the smell of antiseptic on her old sores. Crying would mean detention. She whimpers
The sounds of boat engines and fumes temporarily seem beautiful to him
She makes them kneel. The only way she knows they will quieten down after the all night screams .She is the only one who has brought the navy blue , pink, gold, purple decorations for the Christmas tree
The smell of custard in the grey dining room with threadbare tablecloths. The frangipani he picked had to be thrown into the river. Mother I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow (Gitanjali Verse 83) When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall where was their armour and their arms? ( Gitanjali Verse 85) In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of the room. I find her not ( Gitanjali Verse 87) It is 2020. She faces the Hawkesbury River, she kneels, she utters “our father who art in heaven”. This is her 1501st day on Peat Island. Her muscles ache from the yoga which fills her time. Somehow he can bring his hands together even though his fingers hurt. The yacht takes much of his toil. It fills his time. The scent of orange from the oil burner lingers Rosary beads lie on her bed The brown contrasts with the yellow of the spread. She can smell the gravy from the restaurant downstairs On this muggy night he can smell the mangroves on the river. He says 7 Hari Oms  as his counsellor had recommended. It fills his time Sunday incense in the chapel is no longer allowed. She enjoys the laughing exercises. She attends to pass the time The sounds of boat engines and fumes temporarily seem beautiful to him. The clock is slow again She makes them kneel. The only way she knows they will keep the arthritis away. She is the only one who has brought the navy blue, pink, gold, purple decorations for the Christmas tree. Everyone else brought red and green The smell of olive oil. The scent of lavender watch the frangipani flowers float in the timeless river.