There is another sun
rising
out of
the centre of the Earth.

It rises to all sides.

It rises
with the human being.

What role for those
who can experience 
freedom
and the truth of this?

Can it be anything more
than to merely report
well and truly
of what one has seen?

In doing any more than this
we trespass upon
the freedom
of others 
to determine
for themselves
their own 
course of action.

How do I, in truth,
report of freedom
and in so doing
leave you free?

***

It is up to each of us
to make ourselves free,
but we can support one another
in this striving.

Every place 
and all that inspires it
now seeks to be
in service of the 
spirit of the Earth
as a whole.

But it is up to human beings
to recognise this,
and say 
‘I am that’— 
to say ‘the spirit
of the Earth
lives in me.’

In so doing,
evil can also be
transformed
to the good—
can be embodied
in its rightful place.

I went back to a beach today
that I swam at almost daily 
for 10 years.

So I know it fairly well.
But I hadn’t been there much
for the last 20 years
or so.

I was shocked today
to see much of it
had washed away.
A large cliff face greeted me 
almost at the end of the steps.

People were hunkered up
against a fenceline
on the sand.

I looked down to the teahouse
and the water was lapping
at the concrete stairs.

The tide was only half way
between high and low,
and it was rising.

Gradually, slowly,
the Earth is being eaten away.

But where do things go 
when they disappear,
when they’re ‘extinct’?

Something new is growing, though,
in the midst of this.

It grows in the Earth’s
invisible foundations,
and in our own.

And it will meet there
all those old friends
we might otherwise 
have lost.

After not being there yesterday,
the janjarak black-winged stilts
have come back to the lake.

There are seven standing on a dead log
towards the lake’s drying centre—
one with wings a lighter grey—
an adolescent still,
most likely.

Death does not roll on 
in a linear way.
Life returns amidst it.

As essential life is freed up
by it.

The Earth itself will 
eventually
go this way.

The lake has dropped below the measurement gauge—
its base sits discoloured and dry.

The remaining water is shallow
and the colour of coffee or, more precisely, cappuccino.

Five days ago, marangana the wood duck was on the edges,
now he’s gone; 
janjarak the black winged stilt was also here,
now gone.

Up till yesterday there were two adolescent swans—
the last of the young this season.
I was beginning to wonder if their wings would be strong enough
to carry them out before the water dried up.
Today they too are gone.

By the water, that leaves kwirlam the swamphen
who will not go.
Plus about a dozen black ducks, some in the water,
some on logs, some wading the mud on the edges.
There might be a grey teal or two among them.

Kanamit the welcome swallow flitters above from time to time.
Manatj the corella lands on dead branches
and climbs down to the water.

Then there are the other usual suspects.

But mostly we’re headed to dryness,
departure and death.

Though what’s on the other side of that—
beyond just seasons?

The spirit of this place—any place—
still exists. 
And seeks to serve—
the whole, the Earth…
and what comes next.

Sunday morning Leighton Beach
and I’ve managed to find a spot to myself
albeit only for a while.
Soon swimmers come close
or cut across,
either further out
or right where I stand.

I go under
and open my eyes.
It’s different than the night before
when, facing west
at sunset,
through the water I
saw light.

Now it’s more limestone cloudy.

I stay a while longer
as the swimmers continue on.
And then, from the south, also in a line,
approaches midi the pied cormorant.
He seems to have no intention
of passing around or over or under me.
He just keeps on paddling.
We lock eyes.
The water carries him slightly inland of me,
but close enough to touch
as he moves by,
all black and white,
blue eye area,
yellow and pink face,
top beak-end hooked over the bottom.

He keeps his eye on me for a couple more metres
then puts his head under to look for fish.

Gradually he is gone.

Many things exist and approach
in the watery substance
of the world.
What do we see there?
What of what we see
should we seek to become?

***

People talk of light in the dark.
Maybe we should begin to speak
of light 
in the water—
of a watery kind of Sun.

We’ve only ever been to one other
Wardandi Country cave together—Calgardup.
While there we were given
entry to Giants Cave as well.

These two are run by state government.
The rest are privately run.
(Though, we’re told, there are about
a hundred others too.)

As we’re getting the briefing
I have a vague memory
of being told
that this cave is more full on
than the rest.

Tight climbs up vertical ladders.
87 metres below ground.
95 percent humidity.
Points of no turning back.

As we head down
I begin to feel the weight
of all that earth above me.

But then I try bring in some 
of the light of the whole Earth—
of the whole human being—
into this darkness.

From this point on,
the weight of the earth
doesn’t bother me.
Even down here I feel buoyant.

At one point we turn off our headlights.
Eyes open or closed, the darkness
is still the same.

We pass through the tight squeezes
between limestone and calcite quartz
on vertical ladders. 
We pass under overhangs,
crawling.
We climb over sections 
where the path isn’t clear—
where there are only chains
and drops back
down ladder shafts.
We slide down wet sections 
on our backsides
tightly gripping ropes.

And finally we scramble,
after having to kill a couple of marchflies,
back towards the windows and doorway 
of light at the far end,
crawling over
the final steps,
and slinking through the tiny 
backdoorway, more gnome-like
than we left, maybe,
but also more human;
more connected to the darkness;
more connected to the earth;
more connected to the light.

We’re kayaking Molloy Island
on the Joojilyup Blackwood River
upstream from Tallinup Augusta.

There’s a howling northerly wind 
blown in from a nearby cyclone.
We ride it straight down from the boat launch,
past the caravan park, past the private ferry,
round the southern side of the island
where we stop at sandy beach and swim.

This island is like the the water rose up
and took form. 
Even in summer it feels wet.
We paddle in and out of little waterways
and emerge on the island’s eastern side 
still somewhat protected from the wind.
We’ve never been here before—this island
between Wardandi and Bibbulman country.
Much is new. 

But then we turn a corner 
heading north,
and there in the water 
is kadar the musk duck.
Female.
All black and sleek
and diving.
We paddle 
and the next time she comes up
we’re almost side by side.

Sometimes all you need is something familiar
in a whole landscape of unknowns
to anchor yourself.

Hamelin Bay bottom of Wardandi country
and here you’ll find some of the best
limestone rocks for skimming across
the water’s surface.

Part way up the beach 
there’s a little reef section
of more limestone.

I stand near the reef and send a few
rocks out into the ocean.
And as I look down to find more,
I realise that the reef formation,
while much larger,
is also the form of a perfect 
skimming rock—sized for giants.

The whole in the parts,
the parts in the whole.
As all living things are,
and all that they create.

As we are, though
we need lose nothing
of ourselves 
on the journey back.