Tidal Wasteland

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.


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