Night falls and I head down to the dam to collect my clay. Digging here and there along the embankment to find the right consistency. I am acutely aware of the scent of cut grass in the air. It is harvest time.Preparing the clay, I am amazed by its silky patina and its rich earthy ochre. I cup a ball of its devine smoothness, shape a ball and push into its centre... a vessel is born.
I am transfixed by the quietness of my making as I respond to the clays innate sensibilities and it to mine. Pinching, turning, into the black night. Late evening, I forage and gather material to burn. Grass, pine, gum leaves, twigs and sticks.
Tomorrow comes on a warm indecisive breeze. The grasses move with more vigour. I am hesitant of an open flame under such uncertain conditions, I rethink my process and decide to give the open flame shelter from the wind by building my fire closer to the protection of my dwelling.
Assured now, I nestle my pots safely into the depths of combustible materials and slowly with care I light and nurture the fire.