View from West Head, Sydney
Lion Island sleeps like a cub
between Angophora branches.
Scratching among leaf litter, a Superb Lyrebird
drags his regal feathers over ruined castle-rocks.
In the tray of green-silk-water below,
miniature curved triangles sail;
and way down there
Barrenjoey’s lighthouse is as little
as a birthday candle – unlit.
West Head is surreal:
a giant-realm in balloon-blue skies.
These tiny, far-off man-made things
tinker at the edges –
not important
it seems.
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