By Kathryn Fry
Among the fortunes of the Lane Cove River,
its shaded shrubs, its wet–weather falls,
a place for breathing long and deep
and flannel flowers, holding what winter light
they can and bringing you
to my thoughts. And in the Berowra Valley,
lobelias rise from fire-grit, blue in their hair-fine
greenery. This country is a sandstone song
that’s flowing now with boronias spreading pink
under angophoras and gums.
It shows me a fern I’ve never seen before
how the creek widens here (its ancient sands,
its stone-crush of ochre at the edge), adds
rapids there, how cocooned it all is from
the sky. In my heart I show you.
Grasstrees crown the slopes with patience.
The track brings a treecreeper, a party
of wrens, a pair of yellow robins. They sing
the score these waters write from sky
to sea. All day I walk, my bones singing us.
It’s the music of you I walk with. In August
wedding bush is white brilliance and lace,
eriostemons could be bridesmaids though
their pink is everywhere. Red grevilleas
are fists-full of hope, as winter slips its grip.
At noon, descending to Galston Gorge in mid-air
I want us, you and I, in mid-life’s heat and peace.
Isopogons near a sun orchid, mat rush
by the track. As if I see more, knowing you.
Pea plants in bud, the cluster of christmas bush
to bloom twice (white petals, sepals in red).
Later near Crosslands with the tide ebbing,
the light slanted thin and the day effortless
it seems as the birds, those two flying over,
only where they know.