A dark Eos, from the scarlet cracks to a subtle blush of beauty.
The bush is stippled in shadows dark as ink, a pulse of white then the squeaky whistle giving away a Willie Wagtail
A striated Heron crouches on the inside of the last fierce curve before the mouth
A single boulder sits on the edge of the river, a huge crab wedges in, too dark for a photograph.
On the elbow two Pied Oystercatchers still, asleep in the abundant darkness.
The striking blue monochrome. Still waiting for an Eos that will set fire to the sea.
A Brahminy Kite wanders up and down the four beaches.
As light levels rise, the Oystercatchers stir and go about their business, prodding and probing.
And what is my business here? A simple witness of such beauty that is disappearing around the world,
I feel close to the birds, I keep five metres, no sudden movement – happy being close, no need to pet and stroke, no need to own and enslave – just being close, parallel lives in a shared world.
A spray of swallows flies out of the south, like speeding butterflies mayhem in the air.
Helios is late, tangled in cloud, and now we know even he is mortal.
And now I have cancer, I am convinced that I am mortal too.
