The state bearing a seafarer’s name,
distant now, albatross range, from its link
with the polar continent — tectonic shift
small tremors communicate. Moored yachts
clink their rigging in bays. Skewed island,
all that mountainous weather-burdened weight in the west!
Shouldn’t the sheltered east, with its vineyards and holidays,
be scolded for escaping the west’s gales and rain,
the lit townships far out in a stormy night,
the straining forests, sea rage?
There’s neither balance nor parity.
The real culprits have long since rumbled away
from where there’s detritus of glaciers and awesome volcanoes.
But not icy air, sudden, hyping latitudes south
or from northern states, desert heat. Here,
pelicans and seals can choose their extreme.
Jetties wade into the sea, meantime, tentatively.
Each channel and bay with a European name,
just to repeat them is transporting,
and then, for a while, History
— bloody, manacled, barbarous —
chides onlookers for taking pleasure
within its proximity like a squall
unsettling a glassy lake, and makes
imaginations take root or grow defiant as plover.
In the forests red waratahs open like claws;
bottle-brush flowers tally a hundred domestic chores.
High shine and danger combine in black snakes.
Around the coast and inland there may be species,
it’s claimed, that elude being sighted and named.
© Andrew Sant