Lachlan rotates the globe. Adorned with crystals and gems, it scintillates as it spins on its gilded axis, each continent alive and glowing. From the view of a God , the eye of the Universe gazing down, could one imagine the tumult and trials being waged on the ground? That, on this jewelled surface, a war bubbles and boils, boy soldiers and bombs away?
Here - a piece of jade, silent and opaque - a forest razed that wastes away, space made for eyes as large as plates.
A flake of garnet, as densely red as the blood flowing below, unrest aroused by the thirst of wealth; diamonds to be strewn across a loved ones breast.
A sliver of moonstone; from the moon a lake of ice, from the surface; all fire and brimstone. Napalm and A-bombs, the mania is alien, the flames are lost in space, the view from here is lovely, shining on a young boys face.
A simple scene. A grandfather advises a child not to spin the globe so fast; it may do the
world harm.
Still, looking upwards at the ageing mind, earnest and honest, and warm and kind; can Lachlan see the creases in the old man's face; etched by years of speed and haste?
