Small Pieces

The Other Curve

March 2020. Covid’s here and my emotions are all over the place. Family and friends are feeling much the same. I return to the work of a much-admired expert in grief to try and make sense of things.


This piece comes from a long time ago, the memories rising up from some deep storehouse inside.

The Art of Making Art

A friend organised for a small group of us to spend a weekend at a shack on the east coast of Tasmania, where we’d work on making our different artworks together. While they painted and sculpted, I sat with pen and notepad on my lap and gradually made this poem.

A While Between Poems

The first time I had a poem published I was 10 and at a small Catholic school in the SA country. It appeared in the children’s section of an Adelaide newspaper and I was paid the grand sum of $1. My father held onto a clipping of it for many years. Here it is, dusted off for old times’ sake. (Dad’s favourite line was the one about him and the school fees.)

Slowly a Poem is Made

The word poem comes from the Greek word for make. A poem I wrote that was a long time in the making appears in online magazine Cordite. “Routine Transfer (Maternity Ward, 1983)” came out of my experiences as a student midwife in the 1980s.

A Letter Arrives and a Poem Reveals More of Itself

In my essay “Field Notes on Death”, I trace my experiences with death, from pet burials as a child to my father’s 11-month illness and death from cancer when I was 40. In one section I mention Dad’s parish priest who visited him often and was with him when he died. His name is Father Joe O’Mara, known to his many friends as Joe.

Public Places, Private Spaces

home-lost-&-found-(write-here-project)In our cities we can’t escape advertising. Corporations compete to capture our hearts, minds and money, and the big ones can afford big signs, filling up walls and skylines.

No Place Like Home

I’m hunkered down in my car across the road from a block of flats. Watching. My eyes trail carefully over the walls, the windows, the washing on the lines, the cars in the driveway. My ears strain to identify the music I can hear.

Reaching into the Quiet

Two Australian artists very generously loaned me some of their work for my website. Here’s a little bit about them.

The Places in Between

I grew up in a small Australian town a couple of hours from the nearest city. My family and I lived in an old stone house next to a railway line, and beyond that, hills and bush land.