by Colleen Keating

Bursts of yellow, red grevilleas, white hakea, others I cannot name
weaving in and out of pink clover grasses, dandelion, daisies.

They’ve blown in through time and toil to edge cliff ledges
it has pounded for millennia.

It pageants its own living glory, throws rainbows into the ether
sprays us with wild spindrift, and shimmers into symbol.

I breathe its sharp air of freedom, feel my worries shifting
under its thunderous roar, wash down into rivers, wrap with stones

along its bed and can almost hear its jingled music siren
its odyssey to the sea.