by MARGARET OWEN RUCKERT
where forests of strap-plants, edge-loving
land-dwellers, conceal the swamp beyond
& vie for space like flags in a crowd.
No rationing of water or sun in paradise.
Water is tropical here, but rarely topical.
A bow wave punches through smooth-black glass
& a photo-opportunity is ruined forever.
Day-trip inquisitives call for camera, action
but the tannin-backed mirror reflects oblivion.
Fish are for one more hour protected.
Speedboat wash dissects the riverbanks
as operator Speed cuts another sarcasm:
“I’m just a tadpole, what about the others
the brains who should know better”.
But the left brain rarely goes on holiday
except with those whose poetry is physics
of the natural world, sensitive to cause & reflect,
those who feel the horror in each wash of water
punching the sides of the creek, crushing
the innocent just-born plants, crumbling burrows,
annihilating the good-will of an Evolution
that adapts through ice-age & meteors, melt
& dinosaurs; when will we learn from experience
how speedboats top the human leisure chain
with no natural predators, not one.