Reflective Insulation ‘ You just walk out of the world and into Australia’

D. H. Lawrence

Dozing your afternoon away hot and salty, outside time you do not see the powderblue of distant hills,

beyond that cape. Everything has become quite marine with gulls for scattered punctuation. Huddled all together lie the igneous and stratified: craglet, pit and water pebble, mini-tarn, long crinkled shelf yellowish, ginger, tan, wet-black with a hint of half-decayed kelp, sea lettuce – something off. Could be a dead penguin, eh? Elastic theology against the green or a psychic stress enacted by a flannelled ghost in the machine. Days are seasons of the psyche as fresh waves crash against the sill, over and over.

Sandstone is the metaphysical pavilion, our old mate the summer’s ocean finding odd gaps in the field.

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