storm wind
after weeks no months with barely a breath
the wind came rolling over in waves
blowing open the door
and rattling the poles
capturing my otherwise wandering attention
with such insistence I laid aside all other plans
and set to lashing things down
fumbled to light the candles
I had felt that barreling gust before,
knew it as the grief of men gone
koalas or lighthouses?
how many lighthouses
is too many?
how many koalas
enough?
seeking balance
always
Turtle Tears
damp tracks mark the turtle’s
boxy leathery face
I ask the ranger about these secretions
turtle tears she says
then gives every explanation possible
that holds no feeling
someone asks
are we bothering her?
as another egg drops into the pile
oh no the ranger answers
we know she doesn’t mind
because she hasn’t stopped
what she was doing
I arch an eyebrow
considering my own labors
once they started
you just couldn’t stop
the next turtle chooses
to go back to the sea instead
scuffles her way toward the surf
until the researchers tackle her twice
pushing hard against her progress
digging their heels into the sand
to hold her still
while someone reads her tag
but they absentmindedly neglect to
write the numbers down
realize their mistake
and scurry to stop her again
of course
the saltwater tracks down her cheeks
are just water
instinctive
not grief
it’s easier for everyone
if it’s true
thirsty for wave: Agnes Water
my toes, thirsty for wave
delight in the surf
wet sand sloughs dead cells
and salt air bathes
my pipes from sinus to lung
moonlight skips a warm glow across the crests
shifting from one end of the bay to the other
as I search the shore for turtle nests
here the ocean is as safe
as a wild thing gets
we are on agreeable terms
and my fingers loosen
dropping one heavy worry at a time
into the tide
then I edge away
knowing it’s a kindness
not to turn my back
unseen danger
after looking dubiously at the sepia water
of the nearly still creek
I went back and asked
is it safe for swimming?
oh, yeah
the owner nodded
I’ve been swimming in it all my life
the crocs are just in saltwater
20ks away
approaching a second time
I got in enough to launch a canoe
all the better to appreciate
how the water was thick like molasses
(perfectly natural, filled with nutrients)
but it wasn’t the water that put me off
it was the impenetrable darkness of it
not knowing what was beneath
the inscrutable surface
hours later
when we came across the six-foot-long python
unhurriedly examining the chicken coop
a short ways from our tent
I did not regret having saved my dip
for the pure cold clear swimming pool,
unmistakably empty before I entered
Words You Won’t Need on Your Tropical Holiday
when the air sweeps
a swell of eucalyptus scent
inside your valise
here are some bon mots
you can leave behind:
crisp
brisk
sleet
snow
blustery
chilled
cozy
frost
blizzard
ice (well, you may want to save this one for cocktails…)
rime
biting
freezing
frozen
drift
icicle
snowman
raw
frigid
hail
cool
sled
sleigh
scarf
mitten
muffler
jumper
overcoat
hot cocoa
hot toddy
fire
snug
trust me –
you’ll have no need to utter
any icy sounds
December in Queensland
Away in a Manger crackles
under an invisible Southern Cross
and full-lit half moon
while the maniacal kookaburras
and blood-curdling bush stone-curlews wail
accompanied by the occasional flaps and crashes
of overgrown fruit bats dangling from the trees
and once in a blessed while
the slightest sigh of breeze
it’s December in Queensland
so far from home
The Platypus Band
They say in Eungella
‘midst the river and sand
when darkness descends
and night cools the land
‘tis then that you’ll hear
what you can’t understand
no your ears don’t deceive you
it’s the Platypus Band.
It starts nice and calm
yes, perhaps a bit bland
til bats flood the sky
and the moment’s at hand
when wings beat the darkness
the duck-bills will jam
and belt out their anthem
We’re the Platypus Band!
Oh you may think it’s quiet
in the hills of Queensland
with only the creek’s lilt
to sing to a man
oh I doubt you’ll believe
til you hear it firsthand
those monotremes in stereo
they’re the Platypus Band!
farmstay vs. caravan park
after a string of caravan parks
here we are
camped on a farm
and we all go loose and easy
with room to run and kick a ball
and the great big sky of stars
arching over us
bright enough you can name them
even through the tent screen
and the dark’s black enough
to be able to slip into sleep
whenever you’re ready
crickets keep up a drone
so different from generator
and the highway’s a quiet whisper
in the distance
as the night lengthens the heat here actually ebbs –
at last we’ve found a place where sleep brings cool
over by the office Tilly the kangaroo dreams
her long hind limbs splayed in visible peace
