Back to Bruny
Driving across the narrow neck
the isthmus, which I stumble to say,
shuddering on bumpy dirt roads
scanning the bush track
for jack-jumping ants,
only the sound of my steps and breath
and birds calling greetings overhead.
Seals worming their way across rocks
before plunging into the Great Southern Ocean
a black-suited abalone diver emerging
from the azure bay.
Sipping coffee and sharing mint chocolate
along a shore of red-beaked oyster catchers
a pelican diving for crab
on the sand, breaking it open.
Wallabies lounging in paddocks,
invisible beer cans in their paws
surveying the lambs and their mothers,
the elusive white wallaby that didn’t care I hoped to see it.
The hidden thump of a wallaby’s tail taking fright
at night as I creep across camp
with warnings of farmers’ gunshots in my ears.
Showering in front of a silent audience
of hundreds of gum trees,
the hot water steaming in the chilly afternoon breeze.
Rain plopping on the canvas tent
dry inside, I read under torchlight.
Creamy slow-cooked scrambled eggs in the morning
nights of singing while I play my ukulele
and listening to stories of the Tasmanian tiger.
Stationary on my couch,
hearing neighbourhood dogs barking
and leaf blowers screaming
the deadening manicure of suburbia
I dream of going back to Bruny again.