In proverbs, mountains are the immobile backbone and framework of the world. They are the embodiment of Earth itself: immense, indifferent, givers and takers of life, eternal, everything that humanity is not. They are a ready symbol of anything overwhelming.
foto – feeding seagulls at bellwood park in nambucca nsw australia
It was there that I found them:
the seagulls – the secret
of where they go at night.
― Lemony Snicket
On Home Beaches
Back, in my fifties, fatter than I was then,
I step on the sand, belch down slight horror to walk
a wincing pit edge, waiting for the pistol shot
laughter. Long greening waves cash themselves, foam change
sliding into Ocean’s pocket. She turns: ridicule looks down,
strappy, with faces averted, or is glare and families.
The great hawk of the beach is outstretched, point to point,
quivering and hunting. Cars are the stuff at its back.
You peer, at this age, but it’s still there, ridicule,
the pistol that kills women, that gets them killed, crippling men
on the towel-spattered sand. Equality is dressed, neatly,
with mouth still shut. Bared body is not equal ever.
Some are smiled to each other. Many surf, swim, play ball:
like that red boy, holding his wet T shirt off his breasts.
Subhuman Redneck Poems, 1996
“…before you, I was a doubled-up fist – now I can hold soft things, fragile as butterfly wings.
― John Geddes, A Familiar Rain