But not for want of death

 

I forge a path along the sandstone void,

bound for Eagle Gorge,

hidden from the would-be scowls of the ranger,

hidden from the office matriarch

that tucks us in

to suffocation,

claiming the little space still left. 

 

One misstep 

means savage end

 

and yet

 

I'm drawn in

like asteroids hurtling by mad pulls

to mad fates

- I want that sea to have me,

to take me under its murderous rage,

to break my neck against the

beasts

of its underworld.

 

But not for want of death.

Instead, for want of life which,

in turn,

draws me back from the gorgeous brutality.

 

In 1629,

long before arrival out east,

way out here - out west -

a couple of mutineers

stood marooned.

They the original Euros to Oz

- out of horror though, not choice;

doomed men of the Batavia. 

Centuries on,

I watch the sea

barrel

into land

with such a wild, brutal, ancient viciousness

that I sense

it itself lays down its history

without mercy,

without a hint of compromise.