I step off track for a photograph, slip,
recover dark sky and a cautious day.
Flayed cloud, the sun playing hello /
goodbye chasing the pulse of the planet.
A rolling swell washes my boots
but the camera barely moved.
I am becoming a photographer
and no longer use tripods.
Each dawn procures an experiment,
the specimens squandered by most,
agitated chatter by Superb fairywrens,
the only flying feathers are sliver / white.
The ocean is working hard this morning
grinding shells, polishing stones.
The eyes decline to the sparkling,
detailed explanations of the runoff.
Ghost crabs scarper to the rim and wait
on edge to see my next move, which
is to keep walking in discomfort, sand
has overrun my wet shoes. I’ll blister.
Sea slips off rocks immediately, no grip, but
the sea is this world’s most patient actor.
A perpetual motion machine hustling equations
and calculations of sinking coastal cities.
Water pools a detour behind Old Man’s Hat,
no clouds floating in blue today.
Beyond, the river slowly pulls itself along,
black cormorants busily darn the skin.
This scene is a garden of reality, but I have
to leave, have to eat, though never go hungry.
I am fortunate, devoted to mornings, alert,
at dusk my eyes fasten with the birds.
As I turn into the drive, a lorikeet slides
poster-bright colours across the windscreen,
we are both unharmed. A young male stands
his ground, like the crabs waits to see what I will do.
I have already written two submissions –
on a wetland development proposal
and carbon offsets, now I’m home
it’s time for a poem. A poem a day . . .
The next letters cover tree preservation orders
and safety for Koalas on the M1 near here.
Six of the endangered marsupials have been
run over in the last 18 months alone.
