
East Coast, Tasmania
The centre of the universe is here.
Grey timber posts deep rooted in the ground
in rhythms of the season and the year.
My people come for holidays. I hear
the creaking gate, the children running down.
The centre of their universe is here.
The welcome swallows dive and loop and veer.
Their birthplace every spring: each family’s found
the rhythms of the season, of the year.
Midsummer barbecues. It’s hot and clear
as bushfires threaten, breakers crash and pound.
The centre of the universe is here.
The winter wind blows high and cold and shear.
My southern windows rattle all around
in rhythms of the season, and the year
My people lock and leave. They disappear.
I settle back. The silence is profound.
The centre of the universe is here
in rhythm with the seasons and the year.