COOGEE

Where do the oceans go?

The waves get lost
tumbling between the shambles
of lived 'pon rocks,
the shells dissolved into crude Fibonaccis
and I have let my spirituality go
for a frank and forgiving answer:

"Mother nature don't give a damn!"

Today was 35 degrees and I joined Sydney
down at the beach where the seaweed
washes up in flocks along the shore.
That coogee smell...

Going shoeless across the ridges
engulfed in baked skins
scantily dressed, tanned silhouettes of sunglasses
swimmers who jog from windy cliffsides
down into where thongs drown in the hot sands
and then again, and over again.

Until below the cliffs she and I wander,
our wet bodies amidst the spitting salt waters
crab-shuffling over tenuous rocks made from
forgotten shells and razor oysters
as the waves reach from toe to ankle...

Where do these waves go?

Bathing in six foot deep rock pools,
the jade zebra fish dart out
as I dry out on boulders
that once formed the brow of cliff faces.

She meditates beside me
then, opening her eyes in salutation to the big blue
after a few attempts in the ocean's winds
holds the flame over a cigarette
until its butt is the colour of the sun
soft clouds from her mouth
all at once crooning gently,
bright glare on my book as I write this poem.