It’s raining and the light is very white today. The river surface runs beaten from currents below, brushed by breezes. Sheoak needles drop circles on a silver black green shimmer. Casuarina. Liquid circles arc, intersect, tessellate to fascinate the gaze like fireworks in a night sky and tiles on domes in mosques. The run of the tide the wind the rain all appear to be finely drawn by the needles of those river oaks along the bank.
We recall a particular light of a day on a rock platform where the ripples of wave and tide beam- cast white nets over rocks and golden ones on sand below. We made a film. It could have a guitar sound track- the strings and chords and rhythms would have an affinity with these appearances.
Today the second bridge to bridge walk began on the south side of the river past a truck and men in lime green jackets pumping something from a deep hole dug in a house back yard into the river.
A jowelly, greycoated duck chaser of a dog grinned as it scrambled out of the hightide water at the shore. We cross to the old sugar Mill, restored appartments.My phone rings as we walk along the grassy shore:can i read something? OK. On the next bridge, we stop in the middle of our crossing back to the south side to watch a very large school of yesterday’s fish. They are feeding on something and their mouths open and shut like carp. We see the lower leaves of all the mangroves are coated in yesterday’s mud.
Yesterday the bridge to bridge walk on the Cook’s at low tide. As we crossed the first bridge, a large fish flopped above the surface. We turned right when we got to shore and walked to the old barge harbour. A mudflat when the tide is out. A gray Heron stepping high, in that way, to unstick the mud, so it looks, with yellow occhre legs. A blue moorhen with walks on its red legs, I think, and a seagull pecks close to the waters edge, then out of th e mangrove the second gray heron of the pair appears. Along the second bridge we see another large fish jump at an angle as if swimming to the moon. It flew and flopped onto the surface of the kakai water, the colour of the wind shown undersides of new leaves on Moreton bay fig trees.
steel disks through hailstone glass
in a graded row
over the reeds
pelicans feather gravity
from the sanctuary
in a magazine she wrote
brown is a bad colour
the river tide runs brown this morning
I like it.
khaki and silver