44. bringing the shell to the desert, with sydney harbour blowing in it
i am bringing the shell to you, so you can hear the wind of sydney in the pink insides, that is the sound of an ocean coast, of the sweet thick dune plants of the royal national park, of eastern heath blown flat & low, of the seashores that were fruiting themselves, whilst the shell rolled on, submerged down the wild east coast, in the drifting sand, coves & inlets, chipped in time, picking up & storing its history inside, its spirals worn thin with a tang of salt & tumbling, fragile by the time you hold it, with your tiny hands, your eyes adapted to distance & clay plains, now listen to the east coast, to the shell that has rested high on dunes, blown with storms, sand & king tides, & fruitbats that navigate the shoreline, their droppings sweetening the undercover world of the fruit-eating lizards, the shinglebacks & blue tongues, now listen closely to the shore, the strip between two worlds, the crashing liquid into foam, the fill & suck of weedy rockpools, ssshhhhoooooo, that is sydney harbour blowing in there, ferries, fort denison & sandstone, the shell has brought you the harbour heads opening, the sharks below the warm high waves, & the black storms rolling in with gulls, & transparent jelly fish, one day old, the ocean through their skin, you can see the bluebottles dragging their stings, like trails of deep green rain, & the blue-ringed octopus, oysters & stonefish, listen closely to that sound, the shell has trapped it, you can hear the ocean, as big as a desert, as small as the shell held up to your ear, listen |
