Pools, from on high I saw them,
like a god (excuse
me: goddess).
I looked
down, they looked a bit
like
turquoise tears.
The goddess
in me then
snapped my
fingers,
summoning a
younger sight:
Dawn, when the
good ship Orcades
went
inching through the Heads,
and we
scrambled in our pyjamas
to have a
look
from the
crow’s nest.
There, laid
out before us
were the
sclerophyll shorelines
Phillip saw,
absent too, the people.
He thought
there were none,
that the
land was empty
ready for
the taking, empty
as the
swimming pools I saw later
from the air.
More fools we.
They’ve
been there all along,
watching, waiting,
in the
woods that fringe the shorelines.
Inside a
cove the Sirius
slipped past
(and then the Orcades),
women fished
from their nowie,
stringing
their lines through hands
of four
fingers and a half.
Little is
hidden now,
when, like
a goddess,
you can see
from the sky.
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