A sea symphony supplants church bells, a violent strumming
so loud the Kookaburras’ wake-up calls are barely audible.
though the Black Cockatoos sound solid overhead. Observance
uses a phone to record the racket, uninterested in confession.
We pause for wildlife in the park, two pairs of roos and a pair
of Galahs, chests flushed with embarrassment, documented
with camera. On to the lookout, not one whale despite record
numbers, 50,000 passing by, returning to Antarctica.
Spreading out below, a gentle swell shimmers serrations,
not one surfer. Where did all that noise come from? Two contrails
slice a strange geometry. I leave the camera in its holster.
Two men drowned here, one young, one old, years ago.
Surprised by lack, an absence of oystercatchers, cormorants,
terns, gulls – just swallows swinging through the air.
Flannel flowers are shell bursts of light on the cliffs,
meanwhile new sand walls have been built by the sea.
I photograph Wyn beside Old Man’s Hat, between the sun
much too bright and two teeth, hinting of Deep Time.
We don’t stay. It’s a long weekend in the school holidays,
people will soon be seeping through this natural space.
The poem comes later, an hour or so on deck, recollection
follows croissants. In pairs, King Parrots and Eastern Rosellas
fly ensigns of exquisite colours. A spiders make a lightning
descent on its zip line and scurries into rotten skirting.
The black cockatoos hang about in conversation. Four fly by
in sync, calmly for a change. I reach for my camera, too late.
Again, too slow, a horsefly bites, sucking blood for her eggs.
Just one of the issues a poet faces trying to write a poem.
