This day I’m driving back down the coast after visiting the lake, looking west over the ocean as the sun rises higher in the east. And out there, picking up some of that morning light on its white wings, I spy the long slow flapping of boodalung the pelican like a sliver cut out of the blue sky behind. He’s on his own, and slowly flapping but moving fast—faster than me sitting on 60km, winding my way down Marine Parade, over humps, maybe the odd detour for the first governor’s relative’s new mansion, a roundabout, apartments, traffic lights and so on, as boodalung simply flaps high over the water out there, keeping an eye on what’s coming—the dunes, the water of the river—maybe seeing already in mind’s eye the rock or stretch of water he’ll alight on. I lose him before the big red cranes of the port, and can’t be sure whether he went to the patch of limestone they put in place to save the train line from ships that loose their places in storms, or whether he maybe flew further on towards the southern side, or south beach or some of the other water places further south. I suspect he went up the river. And I wonder how far he’s come today, flying over all that coast, faster than I can drive.
Category Archives: Shoreline Poetics
Return of Birds to the Lake, and the Halo Around the Sun
Still no rain, but after a coupe of days of seeing no waterbirds at the lake—other than kwirlam the swamphen lake-guardian, and wayan the whitefaced heron—back today are two janjarak the black winged stilt as well as either sandpipers or dotterels, too small for me to see. And then, on walking back to the car, I spy a large halo around the sun, red on the inside stretching to violet on the out.
Lorikeet and Jakalak in the Paperbark
Early April and the paperbarks are flowering by the eastern edge of the lake, all light lemon yellow and inviting for the European honeybees. In there too are the introduced lorikeets squwarking and chirping, as I hear them even now inside my room, but much more so underneath the large tree by the lake’s edge. And then comes jakalak the red wattlebird, the soldier of birds around here—I don’t think I’ve ever seen it back down. But this day, this one lorikeet—all shrill and defensive over its paperbark flowers—shrieks and cries enough for jakalak to slowly walk backwards off the branch, until there’s nothing but air below his feet, and the wings spring into action again.
Homeless by the Lake
There is a man under the picnic bench structure as you enter the lake from the east—he’s been there a while now, a couple of months at least. He’s been joined by a woman on some days, always by his old dog. He arrived with longer hair, now clean cut. He’s educating the locals about homelessness, and maybe something else. He has a shopping trolley with esky, a mat and blanket, a dog bowl and dog mat, a high-vis jacket and folding chair. It must be getting cold now in the evening air, in this the driest of summers for 150 years. He moves the chair as the sun moves. This morning he seems to have just come back from the nearby toilets or showers, or somewhere else nearby because it looks like he carries a newspaper. The dog is happy to see him arrive. I now remember him—or the woman—being on their phones from time to time. I say hi whenever I walk past and he’s looking my way. He always has a greeting, and a few words to say. Sometimes I see him talking to morning walkers. They seem to be listening. Last weekend the runners took back the picnic table for their event. Yesterday the lawn mower with leaf blower was right up against him. But today he is back in place again.
Cafe Dilibrit
There’s a dilibrit mud lark that lives near the lake who likes to frequent the window mirrorglass by the cafés and gym, and there come to meet his own reflection. He sings to/at it, flies at it, pecks at it. His high pitched singing, the clacking of beak on glass, the black and white flurry of wings—all things to contend with in this morning meeting.
Beach Puddles
Reminded now of granite ocean rocks near Denmark—the way the incoming tide washes in, rushes around one puddled area, then flows on to another level—the whole thing like a series of pools formed by the water’s moving, like a kind of natural watery sculpture—flowing form.
Lights Beach Sunsets
I like Lights Beach, and can’t believe I’ve never really been here before. Maybe it’s better on late March days like these when the wind is soft, and the light is soft, and the sunset is heading to the top of William Bay hills and rocks to the west—it glows the clouds a silver, then gold, then orange and red and pink. The waves keep crashing ashore in the bays below—the granite withstands most of their force.
Tall Trees on Bibbulmun Country
I’m further south, on the Bibbulmun Track, in Bibbulmun country, within the larger Bibbulmun country, and the trees are large. This is a bend in the Frankland River, populated by massive white-barked karris; as well as the large, red, knotted thickness and branching of tingle trees; plus some thick, straight-barked jarrah. There are large corky casuarinas, some balgas, zamias, marris and more. This part of the bend faces north. The trees are enormous, but the whole place feels soft, quiet, like the cold water river by the hut, flowing slowly through the sunshine and granite.
Paperbark Season
Can’t remember if I was told this or put two and something else together, but come March the paperbark are flowering, with a similar or same name as a fish running in nearby ocean—place even named similarly—ready to be caught and cooked wrapped in the papery bark. Anyway, they’re flowering again, big and light-yellowy bold, almost white, like big Christmas trees with countless lights—whether on nearby streets or at the lake—the lake where there’s also one or two with red flowers, deeper and darker, almost like a bottlebrush, throwing the whole thing into sudden contrast. It seems sudden because I’ve been away for a week. And I know by the time I am back from another few days away they will again be past their peak. All decorations eventually need to be taken down.
Jumping Fish Like a Silver Wave
This morning beach walk: white bait and then larger surface fish jumping. Then, in the afternoon above the sandbar on the river, another group of fish jumping clear of the water while seagulls, a pelican and diving terns strike by the river’s bend. The jumping fish lift up and fall back down again, only to be replaced by others, like a shining, cresting, silvery wave.
John Stubley 