An Easter song

March dawn_

I wake early, put the radio on, Neddy Seegoon  

is constructing a ladder to save the world with buckets

of water. He’s just heard the news – the sun is on fire.

I look. It’s hiding under the sea’s skin.                                          5.40am


Ra’s resurrection is an engineering triumph with

another six billion years of performance. I hurry

to shore for the bleed, only the brightest planets

are sticking to this rubbery darkness.


Our rough garden out back is an attempt at a continuum                     1.50pm

into forest, dismantling line and arc for an ensemble

of complex forms, Banksia, Blackbutt and Bloodwood,

Turpentine and Tallowwood. Wombat and Sarsaparilla


vines energetically scramble through the butterfly factory,

dazzling white Black Jezebels flit /flash scalloped red

and gold brocade – literal enchantment. The track head

draws blood, it’s not the mosquitoes, leeches or ticks


but Acacia saligna, Willow Wattle, dune coloniser

from the west. I was brought up to celebrate Christ’s

sacrifice, but today is joyous, the sands deserted.

Brochures sell the Selkirk experience, but some


pilgrims prefer deferral to arrival, like Thoreau:

“We would fain to take that walk, never yet taken by us,

through this actual world . . .”

Rips run through the excitable breakers, currents spin


an incoming tide and slide slabs of sand around the

dance floor. We swim shallow, knowing deep-down

the sea is mortgaged to the stream of industrials

and that absolute meaning accumulates.


A Kite hovers overhead, a wonder of slender

angel-white wings with darkened tips working silently

behind sharp red eyes. Our acquiescence to gravity


is reasonable, but not our apathy to Glory, Bitou, Senna

or loss of Yellow-bellied Gliders and Koalas sleeping

here a decade back. A Square-tailed Kite brushes

the canopy, see? . . . Who can save the world?


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