Depot Beach


we passed my crooked parked car

at the bowling club in Batemans Bay

in an afternoon of Melbourne beer

with strangers who invited me to their house

at Depot Beach


from the back seat

the sun strobed in the bridge girders

and looking upriver toward the fishing boats

were the unseen catches of big scaled silver bream

and rings of broken mirror water


the next conscious instant I was on a canyon highway

beneath a forty metre high forest on each side

and my simple minded driver said nothing

speeding through the most princely stretch

of the Princes Highway


an abrupt turn to the right to a dust road

cutting through a sixty year old logging site

where Blue Gums spread their silky new trunks

in an elegant rush across the yellowing sunset light

then down another dip by the cream of flowering turpentine

and the dark leaved Lilli Pilli that drivers barely see


I ate then slept like an old Spotted Gum log

dragged from the dark by long dead bullocks

and rose pale and sick to an aluminium rimmed window

and a deserted sunrise at Depot Beach

wrenching open the day

and tasting the salt of the warming sea wind

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