Fifty five year old me will be a gypsy. Solar powered bike/ car hybrid towing a tent will be my mode of transport. Unfolding continent selects destinations. Isolated majesty I will claim enrichment from.
spinifex spikes paint
sore heart splendour patched up dusk
remedies sunstroke
A constant charging and retreating,
leaving behind the soaking sand,
is the ever changing of the tide,
pushing the sea against the land.
And all along the changing shoreline,
Pacific Gulls glide on patrol,
seeking out the ocean bounties,
of washed up departed souls.
There’s flotsam and old cuttlebone;
driftwood finally makes the shore.
Stints and waders chase invertebrate
stranded along the sandy floor.
And up above high water mark,
there is the victims of wild gales.
Dead sea grass in drying windrows,
meander below sand dunes in trails.
New Zealand spinach thrives and spreads.
Marram grass has stabilized the dunes,
and here and there is native spinifex,
among the burrows of communes.
These communes arrive in early spring
in thousands to the burrows each year,
so it becomes a special time,
with mutton birds returning here.
And constant charging and retreating,
leaves behind the soaking sand,
in the ever changing of the tide,
pushing the sea against the land.
There are no gentle movements
into a calm goodnight
there is a rage
of intemperance
in the stupidity
of attempting to mark,
as to be in memory
there is no remembrance
as one I arrived bare
maggots my butlers,
devouring each and every
shedding,
eventually
being their main
course
and a life in circles moves
a thousand years
shall pass in the spinifex,
the dust shall blow
across the page
of my existence
scratching out all
I ever was
generations vortex from the future,
and stretch through to brush my mind
A memory before their time
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