Pumphouse, Lake St Claire, Tasmania.

Drifting above this lake of myth and story, I slide across a waking landscape, everything magnified, water lap and forest breath. The morning morphs with cloud swarm, all steam and fog tinged pink and apricot until the first rays break across clotted gum.

The days had been soft and warm, not harsh like February can bring. The mornings had been cool. We were sleeping above the water, swallowed in the mouth of Lake St Claire. I woke on this day to see a landscape smeared like an oil painting through my window. Light bounding across treetops as if directed by some unseen conductor, 'you, yes you and you, boom'. Barefoot, as always, I ran along the quiet pier, camera in hand, breathless and lost in the dawn show.