The Dawesville Cut

It was The Jolly Frog then
on the Old Coast Road
just past Mandurah
right by the Port Bouvard Bridge.
Now it’s the Hard Rock Café
but it’s the same inside
white tablecloths
good coffee
and a startling view of the Dawesville Cut
the channel cut for fresh water flow
from the estuary to the ocean.
There was a small jetty then
just down there
with young men fishing
and some pelicans.
I can’t see it today
the bushes have grown too high.
There were scars then
scars on the land over there
on the opposite high bank
bulldozers had cut golden swathes.
Now rows of large houses
look over the ocean, the inlet and the cut.
A whale came into the cut one day
crowds of people came and watched.
Today there are only shags
drying their wings on the bridge pylons.
Uncle Bill’s ashes were scattered here one day
they took his boat through the cut to the ocean
and the wind whooshed him away.

 

Copyright Sandra Roe

Bottlebrush Trees

Turn off the street lights
we don’t need them.
It’s October, it’s spring
and the callistemon shines.
The rows of knobby buds
on the stems of dull green trees
have burst, each inflorescence
large and cylindrical
with stamens and anthers
the red thin spikes
the filaments of
bright shining crimson globes.
Hundreds of shrubs and trees
stand by the roadsides and fences
railways and walls
along footpaths
and in parks.
These bright red jewels
hang in clusers
lighting our way
heralding the summer sun and
turning our quiet suburbs
into a red light city.

 

Copyright Sandra Roe

Our Loving Nature

We love nature so much
we have to better it.
Skyscrapers are our termite mounds
factories our beehives.
Banks are our queen bees
who prosper on our lives.
We love trees so much
we herd them into parks and gardens.
Those allowed on the street
have bitumen around their feet.
We love animals so much
we take their habitat
and peer at them in zoos.
We burrow like wombats
but as they seek shelter
we seek treasure
we toil through soil
with trucks, tractors, earthmovers.
Our superpits are so vast
they alter the climate.
Like the tiniest bird
we love to travel the world
migrate between every continent
but our wings are bigger and stronger
made of steel.
We worship pure water, fresh and salt
we live by water
we walk by water
we move by water
and we feed it our dregs.
Those before us strode softly
for forty thousand years
but we stamp on Australia
with bitumen, concrete, roads and bridges
our rivers of cars flow
across the coastal plain.

 

Copyright Sandra Roe