Weekend at Gerroa

It’s where all the good twitchers go, when they die.

On Crooked River, pelican Joe flips flathead in his bill
while fisherfolk plump the mud-pillows for bait
and my fingerlings cast fruitlessly, with lures —
into trees and eyes, so proud.

The spur-wing plover parents marshal five marshmallows
over marsh and through grass; I’m swooped as I watch,
but my father later pokes one — with a stick.
That night we eat their likeness, in fondue.

On Seven Mile Beach, endangered seabirds nest right on the sand,
their trysts exposed on comprehensive signs.
It’s also there my hatchlings start to fly —
kites spiralling madly in the gale.

A sunken hat, a first freckle, a watermelon as big as a baby;
the sunset rabble of cousins sharing head lice and chocolate.
Buckets of shells, the spa bath’s noisy magic —
but a longing cracks me open, carves my breast.