Le deuil, …. or what the Spinifex tells Orpheus
By Michelle Cahill
Published 1 January 2021
Wild one, whipped by this southerly the marram grass burns, and I whisper
a ghostly sigh, too late
seed heads held in spiral flight, tumbling across acres of sands,
trusting the wind
to land
See, the xanthorrhoea charred after spot fires, the tide eructs its floating
embers, knee deep in Hades
fire rinsed, waves splintering, scattering, boring out of fizzed driftwood
the maze of a trail
going nowhere …
Ropes of marram grass thrash tongues, lunge in the briny air, and I am licking
the river’s skin, dry as Eurydice
tasting charcoal, strewn as black confetti, crimped, veined, simmered
whole trees taken out by the swell
a dark silk of memory, a counter-being ̶
So afternoon hurtles, impossibly, the marram self-immolates, chokes on eddies
turning, ill-timed as Orpheus
to our myth of technopoly, consumption, energy, of the gouged dunes
a very swollen heart, a wallaby
limping its way through dusk
"As a poet, my process embodies scrutiny over invasion" – Reflection – Michelle Cahill