Photos and Poem, Eos, Jaaningbirriny, 22 Feb

The wine dark sea is blue, touching sky,
a surge rolling over the hump of beach
holds onto colours as long as it can.

The ground bubbles from the crab holes
until the shadows eat its history
divided into campaigns, inventions.

The stories I tell are Greek or Roman,
not Egyptian and not Gumbaynggirr,
or British and not Greek or Italian.

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