South 2005-05-16

Cold smells of wet Pine,
the landscape is cold and sharp,
it fights against the sky with sharp rocks,
sharp shells and leaves,

Tide shivers down the Channel.

Bruny Island stabs the south,
Seals stab the water,
Arctic wind stabs the neolithic heart,

The violence of winter waits in reply,
Ghost Gums nursing the cove with cold white fingers.

Cold white Sharks hunt below summers honey,
cold white stars graze the clouds,

Mt Tarn sharpens its peak on the stone of wilderness.


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