a gargantuan step in the crust of Earth
where archaean granites fell, infinitesimally,
for miles; water and wind, grinding, wearing
a hinterland westward fill the giant breach,
layers stacked, mud upon sand, over, again
a thousand times and a million millennia of
the debris of ocean and land. We walk, live, love
and die on the latest of these; droughty bushland
is rampant on this skin of dune and swale, while
the tired river dreams of a raging, humid past.
in the summer, an east wind
the temperature of human blood
pushes the gasping air of the desert
across suburbia, fading as it smooths
weary Indian Ocean swells rearing
glassy over ancient coralline reefs.
As the land cools towards sultry nights,
cool humid sea air rushes in as respite to
baking dunes and sweating humans, before the
warm stillness, full of night-creature sounds,
blankets the humming city before dawn’s
desert breeze returns.
atmosphere inverts, and it is winter; thunder
roars with the start of it, rain-soaked west winds
having howled unhindered from the Cape of Good
Hope to punish and soothe the brittle land. The
weakness of trees is culled; waiting seeds,
crouched in humic sand, sacrifice isolation
and autonomy to erupt into air and sunlight,
littering the gritty soil with green.
I love this place with a longing, never
belonging passion, as far from patriotism as
soil and litter from the headlong surges of
human power and commerce. But, land I love,
still you leave me homeless, tease with sparkling
rock, with wild marsupial eyes, with the
strangeness of it all. There are no nests, no
foxholes; you have taught me well that
my rest is of another space and time,
another beauty more other-worldly
than imagination or hope.