Twin Hill Plantation, Sunshine Coast

In the swimming pool, an ant walks across the seam of a cloud reflected upon the water’s surface. The hind legs scramble for imaginary footholds but before long, the soaked body cracks the skin of the water. Clouds which were decanted into the pool now drift across the deep end. Tall eucalyptus mirror a dark outline onto the liquid sky. A pattern of rippling leaves covers the surface of the aquatic loom.

In my mother’s garden, where I sit and play with an old deck of Tarot cards, a honey-bee crashes into the pool. The wings make a soft buzzing sound as she struggles to come free. Holding the card of The Hanged Man, I scoop out the insect, saving it from a watery death. On the slate edge of the swimming pool, the glistening bee struggles to dry itself under the weight a single water drop. With the hind legs she rubs her golden abdomen, with the forelegs she swipes her antennae and eyes back into perfect working condition. Then her wings dilate and begin revolving in figures of eight, until the sweet bee is completely dry again and ready to rise high, into the warm evening.

My mother Maya and her partner Georg's property remains secret and exclusive. A seed concealed by eucalyptus forest, inhabited by noisy and colourful flocks of cockatoos, galahs and rosellas. The arboreal creatures move swiftly like darts — a rainbow that explodes in the clearing. Grass trees, Acacias, Banksias and giant ferns grow along the circumference of the land at the base of the Backall Ranges. From there you can sometimes smell the scent of the ocean and imagine the foamy sea-spray that disperses scurrying formations of soldier crabs.
The Glasshouse Mountains uncoil in the surrounding view, silhouetted against the sky like scattered beads from an unthreaded necklace. Broken Neck peaks through the tree tops at the base of the orchard where the avocados grow; its rocky peak cuts the horizon, sharp as a shard. Over the south hill, beyond the rows of mango trees, the crests of Mount Beerburrum and Mount Tiprogargan are clearly visible from the wooden deck beside the pool. The deck where I dry in the sunshine and read with wrinkled fingers, my hair damp from swimming.

One afternoon as the sun reaches its zenith, I’m on the veranda drying my hair after a swim in the pool. On the wooden sun-deck, a large brown snake appears. It’s a wave that slithers noiselessly and dangerously across the hot slats. It has crept from between the banana trees and is travelling in serpentine motion, towards the opposite end of the garden seeking shelter amongst the native iris. I swiftly move out of its trajectory yelling out to Georg in terror — he darts out of the shady house, appearing in the glowing sunlight on the veranda. He’s clutching his rifle. I point to the snake, it’s in the garden bed next to the pool. Georg calmly walks across the lawn, carefully scanning the ground. As soon as he spots the snake he takes aim, moving slowly, careful not to shoot a hole in to the wooden deck. In one shot the venomous reptile is exterminated.
The snake stretches its injured body, contorts its dying muscles and collapses. Georg lifts it with the tip of the gun and throws the snake on the lawn. I take a closer look; the head is shattered, one eye dangles from its orbit by an optical nerve. Still the snake moves. Beneath the smooth scales, bands of muscles contract in waves that ripple through the length of the snake’s body. The crest of each curve reflects a metallic sheen in the sun. The snake contorts one last time, coiling its body into the shape of an eight.