The river is swollen, touching the grass,
earth is losing equilibrium, my sense
of balance misplaced as the ears grow old.
The boardwalk, designed to keep you dry
when walking on water, is a miracle council
are finding hard to account for in the budget.
The River Mangrove is smaller than the Grey,
lower in the zone, fruiting curved fingers
so unlike the fat green buttons of the Grey
and without pneumatophores nailing the mud.
We are sinking despite the showers of music
and advances in applied science and therapy.
Home in the rain, trees changing shape
streams of Cockatoos flood the sky, brightening
for tomorrow is the common hope.
