There’s a place an Elder 
has mentioned but not
taken us to.

He simply nodded ahead and said,
“Men’s danceground at the end 
of that street—last dance recorded
in 1879.”

I went down there once, years ago,
in an attempt to feel my way
into the place.
It might also have been the dinner I ate,
but I remember throwing up at home
that night. By the next day 
I was fine.

Yesterday I rode past that area again,
as I have done several times
over the years.

I didn’t walk in this time,
but as I rode past,
one particular spot 
seemed to call out.

It seemed both the call of an old song
and the song of what the Earth has become.
It seemed very specific
to this particular place,
but also very specific
to the Earth as a whole,
and very specific
to the heart of 
the human being…
the place where I heard it.

It makes sense—March 2025—
that in the same month as a lunar eclipse
there would be—two weeks later—
a solar eclpise,
and in between 
the equinox.

All things being equal.
First, the full Moon is eclipsed (lunar)
by the Earth between it and the Sun,
all three in a line.
Then the Moon shrinks a little each day
until two weeks later it is new again,
fully dark, on the other side of the Earth,
between the Earth and Sun,
eclipsing one from the other,
but the Sun for us (solar).
All while the Sun crosses the Earth’s
middle equating line, heading north.

And so the ecplises must take place
on the days when the Moon crosses
the Sun’s path,
but at this time of year also on the day of 
(or just before or after)
the Moon crossing the equator.

The special ingredient then, in this month,
is that peak north and peak south Moon
happen almost at mid point between both eclipses.
That is, the Moon is mid sky at full and new,
crossing the equator as the Sun does,
and therefore first being eclipsed by the Eath,
then eclipsing the Sun for us.

All well and good, but what is the quality 
of such a thing for us on Earth?
The days around the full moon and lunar ecplise 
bring clouds and rain and sometimes sun and rainbows.
Earth is worked on by both Sun and Moon.
The air is charged, electric. Meelup Beach is full of people
watching, clapping, swimming, dancing.
The days around new moon are very, very windy
from the east north east, with some rain
on its tail. There is a massive earthquake 
the day before in Myanmar. And I am
sick in bed. Sun cut off from Earth.

My cousin gives me an elaborate 
explanation on tides 
based on connections to 
full and new moon (supposedly larger ‘spring’ tides 
when sun and moon and Earth are in a line)
as well as half moon (supposedly ‘neap’ tides
when the moon and sun
are at right angles
in relation to the Earth.)

It is a logical explanation.
There are websites that say the same.

But when I observe the reality,
again and again
I see different factors
at work, at least
here on Whadjuk Country—
in Perth.

Here, a peak north or peak south moon 
(the moon highest or lowest in the sky)
corresponds to higher highs
and lower low tides.
While a mid-sky moon
corresponds
to mid or mild tidal ranges,
compact,
often leading to two highs or lows in a day.

Some explanations are tempting
in their generality and application.
But only those reached
through the particular
have any validity.

Walking Bold Park with nephew 
and I’m inviting him to 
come up with new names for things.

Things like spiders high in trees,
Zamia palms/jiragee,
Zamia resin or sap, tuart trees,
Banksia cones, pine cones,
pine trees,
bayern or coastal pigface,
magpies and more.

I invite him to look at the thing 
for as long as is needed
in order to create an exact replica
in the mind.
Then once that mental image is there,
to let it go, and stay only with the
feeling of the thing that remains,
lingering a while.

Then to let go of that feeling of pine, or zamia resin, 
or koolbardie the magpie, go,
and see what name, if any, arises 
in the will.

He notes, as I do,
that it is easy to let
an associative name arise—what something
may look like is especially tempting 
for us both. 

We stumble through each.
And then I say the existing name—
in English, Noongar if I have it.
Standing in front of it,
or holding it in our hands.

“Spider.”
“Zamia…jiragee.”
“Resin.”
“Tuart.”
“Banksia…bullkarla”
“Pine.”
“Cone.”
“Coastal pigcafe…bayern.” 
“Magpie…koolbardie.”

These are the single words, I realise,
of a longer story—nouns, names.
Nouns need adjectives, verbs, adverbs.
Words need sentences, paragraphs,
stories, poems.

Whether rock, plant, animal, human…
landscapes and ecosystems. All names.

Moving from the earth of it, to the water, 
air and fire.

I try to join the names of Bold Park
and Kings Park—-to go there in looking
and in naming…(re)creating,
(re)newing.

The naming of nature
and the nature of naming.

By the edge of the fire
is a lavender bush
slightly lit
slightly dark.

How much do we usually see things?

The flames and coals
light up the closest sides—
grey-green stems and purple flowers.

I say it: “Lavender.”

Something of me calming already.

The fire helps cut
right to it.

“Lavender.”

Warm, yet calm,
like slowly glowing
embers.

Lavender. 

Sitting around the fire with nephew—
Saturday night fire.

It burns warm on a warm night,
little wind.

The first sticks were taken 
from dead limbs
of a nearby bottlebrush.
The bigger chunks 
are from jarrah.

Flames turn to glowing coals 
in the darkness.

I look all the way into its fiery core,
then let the fiery core
of the word
out of my mouth:
“Fire.”

And the warmth of the Earth descends,
fills, 
inhabits it;
as the word inhabits the mouth
and the space beyond it;
as the physical fire
inhabits the place in front of us;
as the core of it,
meeting the core of the name,
fills the heart
and limbs,
there newly (re)created,
newly alive.

Final morning of the most recent trip
down south with relatives.

The air is still. There are clouds
and rain.
Which means there is the chance 
of rainbows.
And there it is, to the West,
reflecting the eastern horizon
rainbow that brought us here
on the evening we left.

In the water I dodge jellyfish,
almost transparent,
but relatively easily seen,
their long legs trailing,
water-like in the water.

As we are Earth-like
on the Earth.

Katie and I are back at Marbeelup and Joojilyup—
Chapman Brook and the Blackwood
intersection,
this time with my American
cousin-brother.

As usual, we head up the Marbeelup Chapman
a way—as far as our two-person kayak
with take the three of us.

Then we turn back,
and paddle out beyond the 
point of the waters’ meeting,
out into the widths
of the Blackwood.

Earlier, we read the signs again
about the significance of this place.
The way the Blackwood flows
all the way from Mulga’s Cave;
its relation to the rocks south of 
Canal Rocks.

And now, out on the water, 
we read the signs again:
Karris, peppermints, a grove of tuarts,
marris, jarrahs. farmland behind.
A spot for camping. 
Cormorants.
The sound of karak the red-tailed
black cockatoo.

We pause and talk and go quiet
and drift.

Waters meeting waters—
out there,
in us.

We’re at the large red pyramid
slabs of Canal Rocks.

The water made all the more blue
by their redness; their redness made all the moreso
by the calm blue of the harboury bay.

The water rushes in between the rocks, 
under the bridge.

I roll the word over in my mind
and mouth.
“Rocks.”
I make a space for the depths of the 
rocks in front of me,
and the depth of the word 
within me.
“Rocks.”

And soon they begin to grow
around me,
within me.
A whole new rock-filled ground to stand on,
immaterial, though sure none-the-less.

“Rocks.”

The heart of the Earth 
reaching down
and rising up to meet…

Rocks.