#148 ‘Luck and
caution’
We are not
fishermen.
We are not even
gardeners.
In theory we can
be gentle
and
philosophical.
We can reduce
every task to questions.
We do wear
sandals and the earth
stays biblically
dusty under its old sun.
We know that under
this sun
without food and
water
we’d last for
three days out here.
We are not
fishermen
and no one has
called us
to cast our nets
at the centre
of a sea at
night.
We cannot afford
to be kissed
by a mosquito at
dusk.
Our lives depend
on this.
It is not the
mosquito’s fault.
Gates and
cockatoos creak,
tree limbs and
crows too, they all creak.
Water stews in
the sun.
We take testing
kits to it before we swim.
We are not
fishermen.
We know nothing true
about the soul
Not even
philosophically speaking.
On burned out
ground between dunes
the tussock
grass and spinifex is coming back
intense and
concentrated as memory.
Small trees
stand in poses of agony.
Long dunes glow
in the last light so surprisingly
that we have no
choice but to feel
what we call our
luck to be passing through here.
So good.
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