Published in Overland Issue 219 Winter 2015 · Uncategorized Flow Airini Beautrais To the stone, to the hill, to the heap, to the seep, to the drip, to the weep, to the rock, to the rill, to the fell, to the wash, to the splash, to the rush, to the bush, to the creep, to the hush; to the down, to the plain, to the green, to the drift, to the rift, to the graft, to the shift, to the break, to the shake, to the lift, to the fall, to the roll, to the wall, to the cleft, to the call; to the bend, to the wend, to the wind, to the run, to the roam, to the rend, to the seam, to the foam, to the scum, to the moss, to the mist, to the grist, to the grind, to the grain, to the dust; to the core, to the gorge, to the grove, to the cave, to the dive, to the shore, to the grave, to the give, to the leave, to the oar, to the song, to the tongue, to the ring, to the roar, to the sung; to the surge, to the flood, to the blood, to the urge to the rage, to the rod, to the rood, to the vein, to the chain, to the town, to the wide, to the tide, to the breadth, to the depth, to the side; to the neap, to the spring, to the deep, to the drag, to the fog, to the stick, to the slick, to the log, to the twig, to the tug, to the roil, to the shell, to the swell, to the ebb, to the well, to the sea. Airini Beautrais More by Airini Beautrais › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 21 April 202621 April 2026 · Reviews Pilled to the gills: Ariel Bogle and Cam Wilson’s Conspiracy Nation Cher Tan The question that Conspiracy Nation implicitly raises isn’t why people believe in conspiracy theories but rather why people have stopped trusting official narratives. But what do we do with this knowledge? When we call something a conspiracy theory, what work are we doing? Who benefits from that designation? 17 April 2026 · Friday Fiction These old hands, they are still growing Sam Fisher It was an old house meshed in an unrelenting grid of brick and weatherboard. Its walls still stood stark, red brick. Paint like tender old sagging skin on the timber windows. A bastard of a garden surrounded it, ran up brick wall and concrete path. The lawn, dead that time of year, luminescent in the streetlight. In the center of that void, a sign, Auction.