By | 1 February 2016

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

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