Lockdown, Tuesday, Aug 24th

A mini cyclone was forecast

for A&A

Strawberries finish off lunch at a bargain price
but taste of taste missing, not like the wild strawberries
we picked in Switzerland, the smallest and sweetest,
but here I am, surrounded by trees not mountains.
They have my back as I roll my soles over tennis balls
listening to Colin Stetson’s Dream of Water
with Laurie Anderson talking to me.
There were those who stayed in the city.

I watch a picture framed in the picture window
that devours Jagun forest, a rectangular reflection
of trees in our front garden, self-seeded Blackbutt,
Bloodwood and Tallowwood. The wind, fierce as
a Norse saga, is whipping them out of phase,
clarity is lost, the hustle of life is a blur.
The pole house shivers. Inside is a special place
glassed in, a black spider sticks to the white ceiling
and the music, new to me, washes through.
There were those who didn’t run.

I take photographs of the doubled trees in comfort,
on the front line of my life, not out documenting
the chaos at Kabul airport, the war in Yemen,
the wild fires of Siberia, or COVID mortalities.
There those who couldn’t take it.

The rain has stopped. I am enjoying the rough
and tumble of adolescent clouds as I ring Andrew
for advice on my website. He thinks I’m ringing
to wish him happy birthday, but I’ve only known him
nine months. I keep him talking as I go downstairs
to find Wyn and together sing the copyright song.
There were those who knew only the sound of their own voices.

He says our voices work well together.
I ask if he got his beer – he had said he was out.
‘No, but that’s OK.’ I offer to bring some round.
‘No, no worries, Ania is baking a birthday cake.’
I put the phone down, check if I have a six pack
and I do, a beer he likes, so I kiss Wyn goodbye
and drive over, a few minutes south, drop off
the pack, ring the bell and scuttle into the car.
We are in tight lockdown. This is illegal
but it’s just about wanting do the right thing.
Ania answers, looks down then up, sees me,
smiles, blows me kisses, turns away,
Andrew appears and laughs, they wave.

I detour to the cliffs owning gusts of wind. No sign
of whales, a couple of gannets, plenty of surfers.
Waves worn out by the end are scalped by barrels
of spray. I miss a shot of a surfboard shooting vertically.

A man is kneeling on the beach with a tripod, setting up
a shot with more care and craft than is usual for me.
In shorts, cap and bushy white beard, he could be me,
we move both slowly. A surfer jogs up and leans out
assessing the playing conditions. The black seals
are lying on the water, young men in wetsuits.
I feel I am a voyeur on my youth.