so much depends / upon / a red wheel / barrow

The view towards Melbourne. The scenery atop the Nut. Stanley, Tasmania's North West Coast. February 2012.

If you've ever been to the small seaside town of Stanley, you'll be familiar with The Nut. One of the more distinctive landmarks in Tasmania, The Nut is an old volcanic plug with steep sides that rises up to 143 metres with a remarkably flat top. As you can see, it is possible to walk to the top of The Nut via a steep track (even for a three-year-old). For weaklings and nancies, there is the option of a chairlift...

Henry takes a break halfway up the Nut. Stanley, Tasmania's North West Coast. February 2012.

Now, a poem...

The Red Wheelbarrow, William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

A Nut panorama. Stanley, Tasmania's North West Coast. February 2012.

Comments

Roddy said…

Good to see your mother staying with young Ez.
Obviously you shot ahead a few paces to get the picture.

11 February 2012 at 13:59

Sue said…

Awesome pics. Love the nut. Flying in over this in January made my heart flutter!!!

11 February 2012 at 15:04

Carola said…

The shots are awesome, the view is incredible, that must have been a great time.
It's good for the kids to walk.

12 February 2012 at 07:32

Kris McCracken said…

Roddy, she just about kept up.

Sue, you need to stop and climb the bugger next time!

Carola, I can't complain about my two. They walk a LOT more than most of their peers. They rarely complain. They'll thank us some day!

17 February 2012 at 13:59

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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