We drive pegs and shed

shoes, palm dust over purpled

under eyes. Still I cannot
settle. I am caught

in tyre tread, dragged

earfirst over asphalt
away from here. I go

to the water. The gnarl knuckle

roots of a river red gum

peel back the bank – unmoved
it claims its place

against the current. I anchor

finger deep in coarse quartz.

The river tugs, but it does not
take me. A thumbsmudge

of pink and grey blears beak

closed through a sulphur crested

scream – claiming its quiet

place in the airborne ruckus. I let
the silvergrey ripples

of my once swollen stomach

rise to glitter

at the waterskin. I drift

but it will not take me.
Wresting themselves

from their father’s

best efforts, the boys streak

down the sandbank — reclaim
me and I am delivered

now from the roadrash drone

washed shineclean on the shore.
Together we search for more

river sheened gems

even though they’re

never the same

at home.