As a child I would sit deep in the towering winter forests of ash. Silently in the mist and the rain. Water dripping from leaves around. The intoxicating scents of wet eucalypt. Silently, listening, listening. The steady tranquil rhythm of the light rain. Watching tiny rivulets of water run across the dark bark and the brilliant burgundies of crystallised sap. The dazzling sparkle of illuminated reds and greens in a droplet of water. A spider motionless on its wet web. Silence.

The slight movement of a wet wombat standing motionless as so very close it sees me on its travels beneath the leaves. Arrested in mid motion watching. It’s small round black eyes, wet fur and claws in the oozing mud. For moments the two of us watching one another in the dripping rain. And then as if I am not there it shakes itself and turning its back pads off in the growing rivulets of water and mud. A faint shiver in the trees. Briefly the mist stirs. A wisp of breeze passes through the glistening leaves high above.

And all the while, a fleeting thought. Perhaps I should be at school. Yet this memory from so long ago is part of who I am. A child knows with certainty what is truly important. What is the path to life and what leads to nothing. Children have a flame of courage still burning that is so easily extinguished in our collective rush to conform. I still see those tiny black eyes.

As a child I would sit deep in the towering winter forests of ash. Silently in the mist and the rain. Water dripping from leaves around. The intoxicating scents of wet eucalypt. Silently, listening, listening. The steady tranquil rhythm of the light rain. Watching tiny rivulets of water run across the dark bark and the brilliant burgundies of crystallised sap. The dazzling sparkle of illuminated reds and greens in a droplet of water. A spider motionless on its wet web. Silence.

The slight movement of a wet wombat standing motionless as so very close it sees me on its travels beneath the leaves. Arrested in mid motion watching. It’s small round black eyes, wet fur and claws in the oozing mud. For moments the two of us watching one another in the dripping rain. And then as if I am not there it shakes itself and turning its back pads off in the growing rivulets of water and mud. A faint shiver in the trees. Briefly the mist stirs. A wisp of breeze passes through the glistening leaves high above.

And all the while, a fleeting thought. Perhaps I should be at school. Yet this memory from so long ago is part of who I am. A child knows with certainty what is truly important. What is the path to life and what leads to nothing. Children have a flame of courage still burning that is so easily extinguished in our collective rush to conform. I still see those tiny black eyes.