(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.