End Note

It’s dusk.
I can see swamp wallabies
and wary magpies
grazing this corridor
between crotchety paperbarks
and the sea.
A long hallway
of green carpet
then a shadow
of something darker
where the hinterland looms
and mountains swell,
some kind of veil,
and then, beyond,
Warning.
Awkward, ancient presence,
the old god we don’t want to wake,
navel of this place,
anchoring
every stitch
in this tapestry.

I would like to acknowledge the Arakwal people of the Bundjalung Nation who are the traditional custodians of the land where the Byron Writers Festival is held.