Waking in the night to the sound of heavy rain, and the waves carried in on the wind,  3-D water, it seemed very likely school tennis would be cancelled and I could go to sketch class. Well, Didn't It Rain, that's what I was singing as I swung into the Bot Gardens, tennis cancelled and my good self a semi-free agent ( well, for a two and half hours).  After a natter about materials, resources, we went into the courtyard of the Moore Room, under the verandah and sketched.  For me too many green thoughts, in this green shade, and the drawing is a higgle of piggley-ness. But still there is that lovely moment pushing a tiny paint puddle to the edge of a line, the absorption of following a line eye to hand,  the puzzle of green, viridian, jade, emerald, samphire, olive, and the outliers of pink spots on the freckle plant.

On matters of nomenclature, I claimed the space which is the sign for taxonomic info, for a short poem :

While I sketched this
a thousand ants set
upon my apple core
till they reached a point -
the palette, too high
to ignore.


Like the White Rabbit once my time is up I have to dash, so it is out the door, just pausing to snap an agave, then out those gates,  to collect my car, just pausing to pick up a stray leaf:

Running from sketch
class, a banksia leaf
serrated teeth, waits, to take
me back to what I saw.

Which makes me turn a new leaf.