foreign correspondent

today the wind howls and the sky is dark, the rain may hold off until i’ve traversed from this building to the next. thunder echoed and lightning illuminated the sky last night. melbourne is renowned for four seasons in one day: by afternoon we may see sun.

the streets are quiet at this hour nearby, people shaking dreams and sleep off their bodies. i walk the asphalt streets to my tram, early today where usually i am late.

the man just left who is poisoning my squatter: a mouse. i don’t like to harm, but i’m not good with house guests or share-housing.

i dream of ghosts of the past, not so much of spectres. but don’t we all?


melbourne-love to me is surprises: discoveries whilst meandering in city alleyways; unexpected friend-souls; tastes of aural sounds invoking foot movement in many places; whistle-wetting establishments in ever’ nook & cranny; art in the streets…

non-melbourne: the countryside bleeding ochre; cracked-mud lake-floors; graveyards amidst sheep at dusk.

a random assumed my city-past. he spied the constant in my work [not so hard, really], the man-construct skeletons ever present, even on walkabout. relics of man’s life and death tracing through my mind-projections. the land is beautiful but my mind-eye seeks human’s remains: further proofs we are mortal despite our delusions to the contrary.

love for my country pulses through my being, but it is not blind. i’m not sure i call this patriotism, just appreciation and thankfulness for what is “mine”.


some days my heart is in london though, or somewhere not here.

i dream of returning to londinium. two year and some months spent in the kingdom; less than half of that lived in the grand city, but daily commute from reading to camden for months before i moved. its grey, wintry, polluted streets are like a lover you know is no good for you, but you want to be held by nevertheless. it’s a city to love/hate and not be able to differentiate the taste of either. moreso, i have unfinished business with her; a wish to return on my own terms with a confidence i had not before.

promise made to self that my return would be on the understanding of permanence, not fleeting. and for now, that is a commitment i am unable and unready to make. for now i love being in my rainy city, and the freedoms that affords me, that the lady would deny: such as a dwelling larger than a box of cardboard, with no need of company.

i visited blake; or rather the stone that marks an empty grave. i found him at the tate and felt myself overwhelmed by such a fantastic volume of work. dante’s inferno in illustration, amongst other works.

kinfolk bred me with feet hungry for the touch of new lands. eyes wide at the unknown, thirsting for new targets for my memory-catcher.

for now i enjoy being in the present, potentially visiting the isle of the dead in summer and satisfying my taste for one destination…


though spring holds court, the air is ice. the wind is rough and the sky is haemorrhaging. i listen to its music on corrugated fibreglass roof, let it lull me to sleep when it falls as i curl into bed.


legs, i have. were they not flesh they would be cider. i wonder that they’re not. lady port-huntley and myself are oft mistook for one another from specific imprints, though in flesh we differ much.


gravestones are homes of a sort. or at least the facade placed atop instead of in front. graveyards to me are like beautiful parklands to others. i find endless fascination, tranquility and beauty in them. sometimes this causes interesting situations wherein i find myself locked in.

one ambition of mine is to make a beautiful book filled with my photographs of graveyards around the world. so yes, to me there most definitely are voices in gravestones and graveyards.


dreams fall from my hair each morn this week with pleasant words. messages that incite thought beyond the mundanity of making people dead.

i sit within red ribbed-velour arms of my chair, body folded accordian-like, fighting droop of eye and wandering of mind. the clock barely passing half-midnight. this slavery and drudgery hath sucked me dry. my passion strong for creative work, but the battle with slowing mind and sleep-spasming body is too much.

so i will curl into myself under cover of night; press warm body against cool sheets until they also are warm. visit worlds of beauty, absurdity, wonder and the unexpected.

then wake to endure it all again.


i’d like to think i have the wherewithal to be two places at once…. the sense of my body-warmth transported to another place and time…

“aurora” invokes such beautiful visions, but we so often find the namesake wanting.

i visited a town named Paradise here in Victoria and, well, if a church, a few roadkill smeared on tarmac and some foxes strung up on barbed fence invoke thoughts of paradise then they got it right. personally i found their description wanting…


meanderings upon the littoral last sunday; sand filling trainers, brought me to a miniature world of magic shapes and colours and creatures. crouching in sun-warmed pools in curve of rock etched by water over time, leaning head and lens into water-filled fissures, musing at the beautiful and bizarre in nature and the wonder of honeycomb rocks.

these are things that keep me sane between times.

foreign correspondent

Bronwen Hyde

London, United Kingdom

  • Artist
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