Djudjulyup Blackwood River, by the bridge
near the place they call Alexandra, 
on the Bibulmun side.

It’s a cloudy, cool day for summer.
The wind comes in off the Southern Ocean,
while the sun sneaks a peak 
through those alto clouds,
reflecting off the water.
The surface is mostly choppy—
a little wind-whipped—
except for a snaking flat line, 
like a winding passage 
of mirror glass up its centre.

I sit by an unused camping spot 
above the river’s edge.
Someone has managed to tie 
a long rope around the high branch
of a jarrah hanging out
over the water;
there are also marri, balgas,
zamias, peppermints,
and all sorts of smaller grasses.

I can hear cars crossing the bridge,
side to side.
Teenagers play on its underside,
screaming and swearing
and jumping in.

It seems to me this wide, brown river
demands something quieter, more reflective;
though I think it would also welcome
a loud song, striking right
into its heart, or emanating out therefrom.

I think of the spot further upriver where it
meets the Marbeelup* Chapman Brook.
Such waters as these seek to flow 
into us, through us, out again,
transformed.

*As named on signs at the intersection of these waters.