Some of the limestone has fallen at the south 
end of the beach, so it’s hard
to walk around the corner,
even at low tide. 
The welcome swallows are still there.

The water pours around the corner from the 
Southern Ocean, pushing up
into the Indian.

People wait by the jetty to see the 
small triangular and large rounded
stingrays. The rays cruise past
lazily in the shallows, their wings
rippling under the water.

People put in and pull out boats and dinghies 
at the ramp. The rays dodge trailers and boats
and hands and feet.

I take a swim a little further north. There’s
seaweed and limestone cloudiness
in the water. Someone points
to some dolphins 
about a hundred metres out.
I take in the warming sun 
after a cool night, and look out
at the old jetty stumps sticking out of the water,
and the island just off the mainland.

What is this place?
What is it really?
How can we ever know?
What am I doing here?
And the answer comes almost immediately,
even before I think I’ve formulated 
the mood of the question.

To help. To serve. To make better. 
And care. Surely this is 
the only reason for being anywhere.
Surely this is the only
task there really is.
Surely this is the only way anything 
will reveal itself truly.

Places transformed, transfigured
by the seeing—
by the seeing in thought—
by the ‘I’;
so that the I receives the
place as it pours in, 
the seeing process reversed;
then rays the essence 
of the seen places back out upon
the world again,
recreated,
as if the Earth 
can pass through the eye
of the I—
coming out a Sun.

I cleaned out the bird bath this morning
at this little place we sometimes stay at
in the middle of the forrest
near Karridale.

I poured out the old water and leaves,
rinsed it a couple of times to get
rid of some green on the tiled surface,
then filled it up with rainwater
via the pot I used to cook pasta
for dinner last night.
The water comes out clear, 
with a slight rainbow sheen
from the residue oil.

I tried to fill the dish so the birds don’t have to lean 
too far.

I did all this, because I hadn’t seen any
birds using it since I got here, whereas in previous years 
it was like a busy village well.

I leave it, forget about it, use my phone, 
come back outside, and look up to find
chunyart the ring-necked parrot—
twenty eight to most—landing on the ground, then
flapping over to the bath.
He must have seen me, no more 
than a few metres away,
no more than ten minutes after I filled it.

He stands with his back to me on the lip 
and leans down, 
gathering water in the bottom part of his beak I guess.
He is all green, with yellow neck, a red splash on his head.
Then his mate is coming in too,
shooing him off. And then this one is mirroring 
the process.

I have a shower, and then look out again soon after to find
a little family of small grey birds with slightly green backs,
drinking or flying through it. One after another.
I’m inside so they probably can’t see me.
One flies off, then another,
then another.

Is it this simple?

I see a world covered in 
two kinds of fires.
One destructive,
the other creative.
One is deliberately human,
the other makes use of us.

I see the need to foster
such creative fireplaces
so something can live on.

I see the need for spots of still water
where clear reflections are possible, 
like the reflections of karri trees.

I see the desire for places
where all winds blow gently
towards a centre;
where the ground is stable enough
to feel like it isn’t shaking.

Are these places the new 
Noah’s Arks?

Joojilyup 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.

There are some places on Earth
more ‘enchanted’ than others—
a Western word.

And what in the West are called ‘fairies’
usually reside in the West.

But there is a small forrest
of jarrah and marri and
banksia
and orchids and Christmas spiders
and more
on Wardandi Noongar Country
unlike any other 
I’ve experienced here.

So much so that words
like enchantment and fairies
don’t seem too ‘out of place’.

To enchant usually means 
to attract or please, 
or to have a magical effect,
sometimes by casting a spell over.

But instead of being entranced,
such places can also be seen
as an entrance. 
Instead of dimming down,
being charmed or slumbering,
we can instead brighten up—
we can stay awake—
become, even, extra awake…

awake in such an entrance…

an entrance…

to the Whole Earth;
the Whole Self.

Bussell Highway, south of Vasse,
Wardandi Country. 
I have relatives who ran the general 
store here.
I don’t think I’ve every really been.

Yet this summer—this Birak—
I have been drawn out—
drawn through—
this place, again and
again. And in the four-
hour drive today, for 
some reason, this is the 
place that speaks to me 
most fully.

It says: “You’re back. 
I’m still here. 
Go on.
I come.”

I have the feeling that all the
places of the wold seek to die
into—seek to serve—the Spirit
of the Earth as a whole.

I have the feeling that I, too, 
seek to die into—seek to serve—
fully awake, fully alive—
the Spirit of Humanity as a whole.

I make a space for the dying of places into—
for their service of—
the Spirit of the Earth—
(through the Spirit of Humanity—
same spirit—)
in me.

Looking out onto the drying lake
with mostly teals, black ducks and
coots remaining—
some swamp hens, a couple of 
stilts and an avocet
in there too—levels probably at 
one metre on the gauge—
a slight westerly wind, blue
overhead. And then
I pause my going out into it,
and instead let it come in,
like a turning of the tide on
the coastline or river nearby,
though inwardly, all inside.

And then I find there is a part 
of the lake seeking to die—
but a kind of death by service—
as there is a part of me
seeking the same.

A kind of death into what?

A death into the Spirit of the Earth, I would say—
which is the same as
that most human part of each of
us…by any other name.

Venus, Saturn, waning gibbous moon,
Jupiter and Mars all in 
the sky—all in a 9pm 
line—with Mercury by 
the side of the Sun,
hours below the horizon.

Orion is there,
chasing the Plaeides—
chasing the Seven Sisters—
while Jupiter tries to 
join.

To the south
lies the cross.
There are echidnas 
and goannas,
kangaroos and emus
up there too,
as there are down here.

Snakes and caves and waterways.
The spirit of this place.
Finally, there is the one they all seek 
to serve—the Spirit of the Earth—
and there is his countenance
too, who keeps dragons at 
bay.

Fires burn in Hollywood hills
while five presidents
preside over the death
of one of their own—
first ladies, VPs and unsuccessful
candidates by their sides.
They laugh. They smile.
They shake hands and rise.
Human beings being human.

Wars continue.
Countries collapse.
Nature speaks up a fury—
a mirror
to our own selves.

Crisis upon crises.
Challenge upon challenge.
All pointing back to us—
so far so that the pointing can
point back out upon the world,
which can pour its way in upon us—
become us, as we become it—
the whole world this time—
whole reality—-not just the surface lines,
not just the single parts…

if we craft the eyes for it, that is—
if we let it grasp itself
in us.