COAST (North Head, Moruya, Australia)
It's dawn. The surf upon the long, long beach pounds, sucks in air.
The broad, broad sands are empty save few sticks
of figures who look out of Picasso's sketch of Don Quixote.
Further inland aeroplanes land upon a field.
Behind a tent flap someone speaks. A story, story.
These estuaries have no clocks. Octopus gardens, the odd crane,
or just the centuries where mutineers and the odd tourist stops.
The town, quite a long way away, is itching to encroach in here.
Files and submissions are opened in the town; about big developments, there's endless talk -
and there are those opposed - the banksias, the kangaroos, the flapping tents, and those small planes that whirr.