You just walk out of the world and into Australia

Lawrence
Dozing your afternoon away

hot and salty, outside time

you do not see the powderblue

of distant hills,

                           beyond that cape.

Everything has become quite marine

with gulls for scattered punctuation.
Huddled all together lie

the igneous and stratified:

craglet, pit and water pebble,

mini-tarn, long crinkled shelf

yellowish, ginger, tan, wet-black

with a hint of half-decayed

kelp, sea lettuce – something off.
Could be a dead penguin, eh?

Elastic theology against the green

or a psychic stress enacted by

a flannelled ghost in the machine.
Days are seasons of the psyche as

fresh waves crash against the sill,

over and over.

                                       Sandstone

is the metaphysical pavilion,

our old mate the summer’s  ocean

finding odd gaps in the field.
Epics within epigrams

and the stink of restlessness,

but on the sand it feels like Bush Week,

folk with stripey towel and radio

crescent between quotes of rock,
off which those yellow-eyed silver mullet

patiently abound.