the gut of a rock catches sea murmur in my throat

with swimmer’s ear and something else

high tide brings up dark patches where

there must be colour or

maybe white like these ones

dried up on the shore 
wind will change direction more than twice, heavy

giving way for morning wattle, counting colours

time to consider what might be native
at the picnic tables a group or several

with plastic glasses

seem the happiest yet, settled in dusk 
camp in the scrub in the overflow

try to switch off thinking forward
consistent range spreads even with

that green I can never pin

wallaby by the desert peas

distended and legs up
we’ve driven by twice

searching for the mark