At Reedy Creek, we are between the sea and the road to the inland, with no mountains straining to disrupt the wind from the icy south or the dusty north. Betwixt and between we are on flat plains of rock and straw.
When the hot wind comes from the north, it can slice the moisture from tender leaves and bristle Mike's grey chin with urgency and in a hose dragging frenzy worries over thousands of plants.
The hot houses, with battered plastic skin, speckled translucently with a 'whitening' spray coating of powdered starch, to deflect burning UV. They sit like cemented sailing ships, breathing with the wind. At each end are swinging louvres, which move and squeak in time to today.
I love the 'bewitching hour', between afternoon and night, when sunlight bends on its side, ready to dive beyond the trees.
At this time, I often stand still in a hot house, surrounded by plants busily being green or grey, and close my eyes to be able to hear… The wind stirs the leaves and buffets the stray ends of plastic, the frog song guides the crickets and the fairy wrens, with lightening energy keep the insects in balance and teach their young within this glowing dome. I find a 'rightness' about this and need the time to breath with my ears to balance the noise of a frantic day.