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.