One day leads to another, one poem to the next

This whole estuary appears to be an invitation, open
to anyone, but I’m alone as the sky starts pouring light
and I get my familiar ‘itchy trigger finger’.

The river is surrendering, blue with cold, though it’s
not really cold, just in a hurry, overlapping, tumbling
over itself to get back out like a miniature Futaleufú.

An eagle draws across the vanity of Eos, the horizon
faked, or coincidental circles each of us, even as
we lie horizontal, inert magicians of the imagination.

A rare contrail, with the whole continent in lockdown,
is bright and straight as an air show, but the vertical
cannot hold. The world bends beyond this circumference.

The ribbed bank gives way to subsidence, small embayments,
gloopy deltas. The Sooties fly back in, get straight to work,
moments later, cormorants arrive from the opposite direction.

Kookaburras occupy the Magpie tree, above a Pomaderris
in full flower, its root bolted into the sandstone wall,
(ours skirts the driveway and is almost finished).

Water has its own inventions, its own logic, has levelled
a shelf, smooth as polished concrete, spoilt by the spoils
of living creatures, though nothing is more important.

Life is holy, yet we are so careless with it. Take hunger,
an argument we happily ignore, while wars make news.
Actuaries agonise over the cosmic probability of a protist,

let alone an animal spinning words in technical telepathy
but can you sense the feeling I have of being a poētēs,
home with pen, paper, an orange, sun patting my back.

I watch the fly-paths around us, two crows take turns
flapping in and out of a giant Blackbutt across the road,
the mob of Miners, quick as waiters, to and from our Brushbox

and behind me, Crested Pigeons fiddle round a Lilly Pilly,
wings whirring like a children’s toy. We are all alive,
an uncommon entity if you look back, and then around.