Land of Milk and Honey (Lismore, Part One)

Found myself back in Lismore for the third time in twelve months. Sleeping alone on a double air mattress The Lost Boy bought for our Great Northern roadtrip, in a three-man tent that SauerKraut selected for ourTropical Fruits adventure. Same town, same bed, same walls, same pub (and same carpark), same pet shop, same breastpump, same party, same organic produce, same macadamias and honey from roadside stalls and same Nimbin cookies. Same hills covered in banana trees and palms.

This place is where I pumped the first real drop of milk from my breasts, and the last place it seemed possible that I could fall in love and live happily ever after in a big old house with a vegie patch and a verandah covered in fairy lights. Here I could be earth-mother, nurturer, life-giver. I could feed from my flesh and the fruits of my labour.

Zipped up in this world I have borrowed from old flames, I toss and turn. My surroundings are familiar but I can't recognise my dreams anymore.

(Photo is of a tree along the track to Protester Falls. I love the round, damp, fertile sensuality of it)