Where we live – three walks ~ poems and photographs
Wednesday Oct 4
The wood’s exhalation is palpable after two days of rain,
after 4 months of dry, black bars slant shadow across
the aqueous air. Above our heads a Golden Whistler sings
from a rickety branch, his whole body vibrating urgently
responding to a nearby challenge. It’s music- it’s not music.
The surfers are out of the sea, sea mist thick as cloud
follows another shower in the sequence, Jurassic to Triassic,
beach to berm to dune, Lady Tankerville’s orchid to
the first Japanese Iris opening in the Asian garden,
coincidence also belonging here like anywhere else.
Thursday Oct 5
The tethered sea is leaking thunder, the air is flooded,
Lorikeets are screeching, Lewin’s Honeyeaters chattering,
Grey Fantails whistle alto and Black Cockatoos sail
abrasive cries. Thankfully, the Noisy Miners are still asleep.
The forest is sharply illuminated, the wristy bloodwoods
knot the fresh light, we live in world that is tilted.
After the rain, Oyster Creek has cleared, cleaves clean reflections,
Catbirds are munching berries, orange trumpet flowers
from a mistletoe scatter the poem without end
Friday Oct 6
Golden light chisels Deep Creek cutting into the sediments.
I move into the forest, slow for a young male on the track, early
settler light pierces the forest, cutting out branches, running paths,
swaddling shrubs in finely spun silver brocade.
I hear, then glimpse a Drongo mobbing the Grey Goshawk,
a Brush Turkey crosses the track carpeted in brown leaves
dropped in the dry, looking English, but this is ‘the bush’,
mythic strategy of white Australia belonging.
I’m not black and not even a bushie.