by Warrick Wynne

we arrived early that cold day, with the creek in full flow, funnelling through two ancient rocks
you might imagine had been placed there for that very purpose

and we brought our broken sleep dreams
and the trudging weight of our waking selves

in the distance the funnel spires of Cape Schanck rose like an old wreck
and beyond, the Southern Ocean blue as a button

and waves churned and foamed, ceaselessly, icy and brutal,
coming at us again and again without remorse

and we were clothed with the storms swells and dreams swells of the past
and walked the rocky edges looking for some sign that we could be made new

we couldn’t see them in the enchanted forest of twisted banksias
they weren’t with the sage-faced kangaroos beside our sandy pilgrim path

we couldn’t hear them in the roar of the waves.
they weren’t waving to us on the shining sand

where were they?
they are gone

and we could feel the wind and the sea and sky come at us and through us
and we rose again and climbed out of the bay, and went on