by VANESSA PROCTOR
over the escarpment,
inevitable, like joy or grief,
rivulets of white spray
cooling the January air.
Gravity grips us with
strange ideas,
pulls us all down,
one way or another,
a rock, a tree, a man.
Only a surprise
of black cockatoos
can suspend its grip
on this landscape
of sandstone, water,
forest and air.
But nothing can tumble
out of place today
when the sky is so blue
with its scudding
rock face clouds
and its watchful gods.