by SOPHIE EMMA TAYOR
Pinned to the horizon by distant ships,
the ocean billows like a baby blanket,
its laced edge fluttering against
the caramel crag.
The heathland swallows the hilltop
whole; shrubbery sprawls, banksia
bundled, green tufts tumbling
off the bluff.
Carved from the cliff, the sandstone
weaves in long-gone waves, white
grains glimmering with the
twinkling tide.
Thin clouds mar the mariner’s sky;
the heavens are smudged by fleece
and feathers, downy fibres fading
from white to azure.
Humming along to the cicada’s drone
and getting a start when we pass too
close, its paper wings beat to my
heart’s timid tune.
Greeted by the lighthouse keeper,
a crow caws from the beacon above.
Black against white, he sharpens his
beak against the balcony’s steel.
Shrouded in the tower’s shadow, we
gaze towards an unseen bay. From
Baily’s Cape, the Sydney skyline is
naught but a far-off blur.
Little more than an afterthought.