Kindling baby

In a circle of white chalk	salt is salt is salt
death is a mudlark that sits on my shoulder
wing outstretched beside my hair that carries summer
into the long light of winter
I am making a kindling baby

I lay it down in the Silver Cross pram
where my children sat on a hill of towels
through quiet dunes, to an empty beach
to an unfamiliar straight line of ocean to stand
in a circle of white chalk	salt is salt is salt

I lay it down like the dry bones I have
to pick with the last time I was here
wings brush air, return with my eye
in the breath of its clear song
death is a mudlark that sits on my shoulder

I lay it down like the skeleton of remembering
collecting firewood in the blue-black bushland
so far from my bloodlines, I push through sun
and sing songs to the shadow bird
wing outstretched beside my hair that carries summer

I lay it down in the place where my children lay
as acres of smoke rise on the back of my tongue
tonsils thick with somebody else’s loss
I crease my body into the nor’wester
into the long light of winter

gulls flick like dust motes over harbour, over day
branches snap white across my knee
the hollow body of swamp mahogany shines
in a flash of forgotten sun and with skin ignited by rain
I am making a kindling baby.