Poems of the day

from Exhibit

Cliff wind has a particular
whistling sound like a gas bottle 
released a quarter turn – 
gulls tumble in its slipstream
wallabies are fastened to 
the grass by their ears.

Here on the high side
we squint the miles of absolute blue 
and watch the white knots of diving birds
unraveling to stitch the sea.

In this ritual of circles
the trees are intertwined. The tracks
we tread, dreadlocks on a leviathan’s head.

Below is the spiral heart of palms
and grass trees growing crooked spears.

And lower still, beneath the waves
the constant swirling helix of blue blood
whooshing through a vein.