My morning habit of a mini-walk at daybreak is easily transportable to the bush block where I spend weekends. After a respectable amount of rain (this was written in early December), the roadside grasses are flourishing and beckoning. Everything is still wet from dew and river-mist: my new sneaker-things are obviously unsuitable footwear, because soon squelching is added to bird song and the faint sound of running water. I walk the length of the reserve where we used to enjoy Saturday night wine, and find plenty to delight me. My flower camera lets me down a bit: I’ve scored a lot of blurs. But I’ve also made discoveries about the nature of grasses and the phases of their unfolding. All the roadside luxuriance boils down to six different species.

The silhouettes against the pinkening sky are dramatic and pleasing, and I have enough good enough grass shots for a post, despite their woggling habits.




This week DJ does miraculous things photographing a pink hydrangea in a way that makes me think “delicate”, not a word I’d usually apply to what I’ve always regarded as a cumbersome flower.