I am a collector of the found and the familiar. I rely on touch now my sight is failing. The shape and texture take me back to a lost world of depth and colour. Keepsakes from the time when I stored things for the future. Clapsticks, a boomerang with my name burnt on it. Seedpods, each identified by pattern or patina. Each in its own special place. Sometimes I count my shell collection, rearrange them according to size or shape. Fingers explore the smooth spiral inside a nautilus shell. Holding it up to listen, I hear the wild song of the ocean. I still enjoy the smooth feel of river pebbles in my hand. Collected as a child, their significance is long forgotten. Lately the images blur, become more fleeting. But the smell always lingers. Now I can return to the forest, my favourite scents revived at will. Wild myrtle, lemon gum, the honey-sweet brush of wattle captured in air tight bottles stored on a shelf.