Snowdomes and light

One of the things that strikes me about the Victorian, the Australian, landscape is the quality of its light.

The light is flexible and strong and curious.

It is able to slip under a moody sky to spotlight the neon glow of a white cuckatoo flying.

Able to highlight a single gum’s trunk under the sweep of a morning mist.

Able to find a bare branch and make it pop amongst an otherwise muddied pallete.

I said to my husband; as we sat on the verandah hoping children’s bedtime had stuck; as we contemplated the soft lit edges of the lingering day… The sun having turned the corner of our high, hilly and close horizon hours earlier.

I said “This town feels as if it is situated in a snowdome. Contained and enclosed under a solid curved piece of sky. As if this sky is seperate from everyone elses.”

He raised one eye from his book and grunted, I wasn’t convincing him of my theory. The conversation shifted.

The next day I went morning walking and watched the white rise and reveal.

The soft and drowsy light landed upon and sharpened the detail.

I watched the mist spill into the day: evaporating.

I took photos and I thought.

Then my husband and I sat down with the sigh that evening on either side of a bottle of wine.

“It’s like a snowdome”, I said “except that when you shake it things don’t fall from the sky to coat the earth. No, when you shake this little snowdome the fog and the dew rises to expose the town and the lolling hills beneath it.”

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