(now an island)
No wings to fly or boat to cross fishy moat
so bridge of words. Strait too rough,
too cold to swim. Easier ways to stimulate
heart than climb the mountainous, merciless.
Where does that leave me, besides on
wrong side of whatever water is?
Mad moves don’t make choreography.
The more I think about it, the more I think
about it and the more becoming it becomes.
Why actually go there, considering stress,
packing/unpacking, neighbours’ noisy dogs.
(That may have seemed like it should end
with question mark) Bridge is wish,
is flying horse, is poem that can span.
Once there I can stop dwelling on return
to Cradle, listen to a waterfall, gorge
on original fruit. Places to revisit long,
yet to visit longer. Lone pilgrimage.
It’ll take what remains of me and then
the remains of me. Still, there will be
shy mountains, ferny gullies, wise witness
eucalypts, deserted stone beaches that lull
with indecipherable code and offer
a welcoming emptiness.
My unlikely return long overdue –
apple, snake and always you.