Under a Carnelian Sun

I took a walk across Prince Alfred Park, the decomposing leaves of the plane trees (platanus xhispanica) looked like the skeletal remains of giant hands (giants with very thin bones, at that).

A dense black snagged my attention. A charcoal-blackened gum leaf lay damp and incongruent beside the discarded desiduous matter.

Odd as that sighting was, it swiftly reminded me of childhoods in summer, when the bushfire clouds would roll in over our suburb and litter our green backyard with charred and smokey smelling gum leaves. They were perfectly leaf-shaped, often still retaining the fine markings of veins and grub-eaten edges, but they were charcoal all the way through. As though someone had snap-burned them.

I remember one year, the fires got 'close' and we kids were up on the roof clearing the gutters, and Abs packed things into boxes and bags.

Most of all though, I remember the sun. I could look at it through the clouds of smoke and admire the colour, and relish the quiver of fear it created. Bloodshot red to pale orange, depending on the density of the smoke - an omen of the last days, a portent of danger.

Inspired by this memory, I bought several small carnelian cabochons. They're the right colour for a sun behind bushfire smoke. I might make some earrings with them.