Eastern Yellow Robins whistle at the gates,
a hovea scales a trail sign, one more bricoleur
will festoon purple pea-flowers in patient spring.
A panorama of masts of this vast sandy ship
sail north in incremental steps. Gravity is finite.
The canopy cannot catch the wind, just waves
the breeze around Scarlet Honeyeaters.
After rain, we look for barnacles gripping the hull,
instead, find freshly minted Hyacinth Orchids
stealing colour, and a healthy sprinkling
of white guano spattered beneath an Ironbark.
We make a mental note – night spotting soon.
We reach Oyster Creek, the water drained
between the walls, the beach has been breached
up at the lagoon. A glint of white skitters away,
a Black-shouldered Kite, the first we have seen
inside this wooden tangle. I slap, smudge blood,
they have already donated Ross River Virus.
