from Judy Johnson’s “Exhibit”

Cliff Walk

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.