Coorlie, the cry echoes bleak across the tidal flats;
late afternoon, and autumn sun reflects in wet mud,
shimmering shades of brown & mauve,
a faint line of silver grey marks the returning sea.
Cooorlie, a thin & mournful sound,
pierces the darkening sky, skims across the no-man’s land
between the tides.
Can anything live in the wasteland?
Coooorlie, and a curved bill penetrates the ooze,
emerges triumphant with some blind & squirming creature.
Ghostly shades of sanderling flutter & dart & run out on the water’s edge,
a graceful swirling dance, partner to the creeping waters.
Coooorlie, the curlews cry, as the twilight deepens into night,
a thin chill wind begins to blow.
My steps hasten towards the lighted window and the bright new flames of fresh dry wood.