The day was improperly born. Blotches of wet fog obscured its shape, there were loose long sinews of mist that hung and made blind and confined the space. It was raining and not raining. The only sound was the steady splatter of moisture falling from the leaves to splash onto the damp ground. No birds sang. All was silence. Clutching a cup of coffee, I stood and watched the washed-out light that was wet and thin and like gauze drift between the trees. The stillness was palpable.

As the morning rose the wind carried swift clouds of all shapes across the sky. They crossed quickly over the valley below in an elaborate shadow play. Showers and drizzle came and went. The sky cleared and clouded and cleared again. Brilliant blue appeared and disappeared in the spaces between the clouds. The light kept changing. A shower of rain fell through piercing sunlight and then vanished.

When the rain passed the birds chorused and flew, and flickered and darted. The song of the magpie mingled in the air like a thread of music. The laughter of the kookaburra and the scream of the parrot - sounds of Australia. The simplicity of light and grass and birds and falling drizzle was all there. The land is a thing of beauty. Earth, stone and water mingling.