The Light of Home



Editorial by Colin Trechter
If I ever leave Melbourne, or the entire cityscape becomes an experiment in wacky-clad apartments and chain supermarkets, I will look at Timothy Rodgers’ work to twist the knife of sentimentality.
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Colours wash
across your face.
Colours that you
hadn’t noticed
during the day
but which shine
vividly in the night.
The light is veiled
by unstable silhouettes
cast by pickets
and trees
and twists of
wrought iron lace.
It isn’t that you
want to look.
You can’t stop.
Your eyes are drawn
from darkness
towards light.
These lights seem
part of a performance.
They murmur,
“This is our home,
no secrets here.”
You can see yourself inside
before the open window,
revealed as an outline,
unaware you are watched.
But you realise
you are outside,
in the cold
and dark.
You think of
Mary Shelley’s monster.
For a second you
are the figure
who stares into the home
with wild and
destructive passions.
Then you reach your own gate.
You see the lit threshold
and your mood is lifted
by the embrace of light
and its promise.
You open the door,
then enter into
the light of home.

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