Walking home in the unsteady night fragrant with stars,
we stepped through fig mush and the sand wrack
of yesterday’s high tide, arguing with the beach
and maybe we pierced noisily through someone’s story,
webbed ragged in this Quondamooka country, broken
language of place, stirring with clumsy bats disturbed,
but we saw nothing on the way home from dinner that
was not as certain as a streetlight’s stamped aura
or as doubtful as the pavement’s root and wander.
In two hundreds year we have coined a bushranger
and mythologised the storming a of beach and that’s it,
I tell you, as you lead me through the foreshore,
but we look up to see a tree of birds sleeping,
tucked into their trust an arm’s length from our wonder.
What other dreams but this? What other path but ours?
The Land Becomes A Story I Can Tell
1 August 2017