The daily lust for gold
Pirate’s cove, a high tide isolate, marked by footprints,
(the world is contradictory), who wants a nine mile beach
with the wind unstoppable and the distances monotonous.
I like a backbone, streaked with gold, a solid start to Australia.
Miilba is swallowing the sea, a pair of burnished pom poms
tangle in the sand near a golden shell that caught my eye
kissed by the tip of the tongue, blowing bubbles, under pressure
to form perfect circles, a universal symbol of the infinite.
Two soapy layers of salts, fats, proteins, deceased algae
and pollutants trap a slice of water and fill with the air.
The shell looks gold to me but I’ve heard of fake tan and fool’s
gold, perhaps a reference to desperate men with furious obsessions.
Flannel Flowers fleck the cliffs above the women’s cave,
I’ve never been back in since Uncle Mark said it would be best.
He has lodged in my memory – a short, wiry Gumbaynggirr elder
pretending to run me over, laughing and falling off the ladder.
We are waiting on deck with a drink for the moon to appear,
as good as full. By the equinox she shows herself over the ocean
directly ahead in a window between forest and neighbours
and just above trees that just cannot stop growing.
Cuckoo spit spangles in branches, it’s been a great season for
Dianella and cuckoo spit. A sinking sun spotlights a golden
Grevillea and fresh, rosy melaleuca growth. We marvel at
the rich varieties of red showing off in the Callistemons in view.
Kookaburras are positioned in one Dogwood, a King Parrot
in another. Neither moves or makes a sound, even when
three King Parrots skim by calling her all kinds of names.
I know what two of them are up to, the patient kingfishers.
Wyn spots a sliver of light shooting up, points to the omen, but
her eyes are cleverer than mine. Minutes pass, the moon appears, late
having navigated the horizon and its attentive clouds, and sticks
like a transparency. Today is working on tomorrow’s resistance.