"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Saturday, September 19, 2015

COASTAL HEATH

Along a sandy grey track,
Amongst the big bad banksia men,
There are the ghosts
Of Snugglepot and Cuddlepie,
Waiting with the spirits
Of a million gumnut babies,
For another generation to read -
And to be enchanted by -
Their stories.

Above the tune
Of the songs of the sea,
With its crashes
Like cymbals' clashes,
Whipbirds crack,
And magpies answer back
With a symphony,
And then, again,
More of the ocean's tympani.

And the breeze is so fresh,
Almost wet,
Blessed by eucalyptus
That blurs out
The hinterland in blue,
And makes the lake
Into a dappled mirror,
Reflecting scans of sky
And cumulus clouds,
Promising the sweet relief
Of shade
And, then, showers in the night.


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