sensing, presencing in
Creating the reality or facade of ‘other’,
protection from the outside?
And what is inside?
What flows in-between?
like the earth. Textured like the earth.
Mirror or seamless continuation?
Allowing sensitivities to be touched.
So too the native bees, lizards and birds.
A brutal pruning,
outside my window.
Perhaps a neat and tamed form to some,
But I dream
of the wispy new
luscious green branches and leaves.
This is where the grey goshawk had perched,
calculating so carefully.
Could it take the sand monitor below?
I stare outside this window
Feel the essence of these plants,
May new shoots
be born from rising humidity,
new growth sprout in UNRULY form.
connected silence, in
conversation with country.
Words as feelings,
passing through the soles of my feet.
Tone changes as we leave
pandanas forest and rise over dunes.
Serge of excited babble as we
onto a stretch of white sandy beach.
Blue, blue, blue
screaming at me…
Hurry up! Dive!
But when we get to the freshwater paperbark,
you tell me
Conversation finds its way into
Black and blue dancers
float under the canopy.
Never touching the ground.
Filed under Poetry, Walking
to this place
feels odd in a way.
A part of me, some kind of awaress
all of the time.
always walking the murga scrub,
singing in the flood plain.
welcomed me back the other day,
left me with mouth open,
heart cracked open,
drinking in the colour of country
as I flew over Roebuck Bay.
seeing it when I thought I had none;
pulling me out,
taking me away from what is:
Resting in a shallow cave in the sandy cliff,
Four pied oyster catchers waking me from my sleep.
The jellyfish have gone,
A neap tide and milky white ocean to swim in once more.
Ocean stratified in bands of blue – light and dark,
Blue sky with build up clouds.
Burning the soles of my feet in an unimagined delight,
Up and over the dune back to still heat.
I just watched a short film made by Annaliese Ceil Walker, which was inspired by Andrew McMillan’s poem A Postcard From Hell in October:
It reminded me of today, latitude 17.9620° S.
The easterly is frying us like eggs today.
The wind teases by swinging around to the north-west, but only for a minute, then it’s gone.
Someone posted on FB that it was 28 degrees early this morning in Darwin.
I laughed and felt relief that I am a ways down south… not south enough.
Married turtle clouds float overhead laughing.
They’ll be no satisfaction from that mob in the sky for a while.
Meanwhile, miniature dragons masquerading as insects settle into my camp.
Did I unfurl the welcome mat?
Where is there relief then in this oven?
An ocean full of stingers and a hose filled with boiling water.
The options of getting wet evaporate, even in the shade.
A pre-dawn visit from this little creature,
perched on the Jigal tree near my swag.
It’s song calls to the sun, beckoning it to rise
and make a new day.
A chorus… soprano, metzo and alto,
soon I am pulled out of sleep.
Sun warming my head,
and hundreds of birds singing me into this light.
I heard them before,
the other times I came to be in this place.
It’s somehow different now,
they’re calling to me, not just making sound.
Brolga families rise up from the flats
and make flight for Buckley’s Plain.
Delicate Double-barred finch coming over for a drink,
perched on the edge of the old enamel bowl.
Rainbow bee-eaters leave their branch and fly in a circle,
out to catch their feed and then back again,
a brilliant flash of green.
Ah birds, you fill me such with joy.
I see you, I hear you…
How do I feel time?
Standing on the bridge and looking down into the water,
Variable tides and scatterings of folk doing things… Throwing nets, casting lines, searching for bait, walking canines, rambling on rocks, resting in the shade.
They were always swimming upstream, these skinny fish with long pointed noses. Silver bodies reflecting sunlight.
Cracks and pops sound out as the tide rushes out, but those silver bodies have gone.
Were they only here for a season? Did someone come and scoop them all up?
What else haven’t I noticed the disappearance or appearance of?
When will I get off the bridge and walk the sand banks, exposed like the bones of this landscape’s body?