Emma Rooksby

The sign among the trees says City, points into drifts of sclerophyll and scrub to a fanfare of parrots, crickets, cockatoos. There's a scenic drive up a hill, a kiosk, a carpark, a view. There's a museum, no make that …

The water's bobbing higher against the markers; it's no longer safe to drive the underpass, where we'd disturb the drowned body of a fox. Having always dreamed the ocean would rise and infiltrate the city by the cuttings you hang …