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
unravelling 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.