Reflective Insulation

By | 1 May 2018

You just walk out of the world and into Australia

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.
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.

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