In this green grove

There is a serenity in this swamp that lies between the narrow sea and the fetid heartland. Beneath their toes of lignin, the stilted trees bind the outpouring of inland soils, holding fertile wastes in trust and dispensing the interest in servings of nutrition too minute for turbid exuberance. Serving two masters, they form a living levee against the encroachment of saline floods and host the fruit of the sea whose unripe bounty shelter in their protective shade. 

The stillness is not shattered by the amorous chattering of cicadas nor the busy toolcraft of tailorbirds. On the mud, the discards of monsoon drains fester and bake under an oppressive sun. A calculated policy of containment keeps these bowls of brackish abundance alive with an underbelly of worms, larvae and living crawlers that prowl the grey pools in the safety of high water.

When the bunds are unleased, the creatures are greeted by an unwelcome guestwork of gaunt-legged waders. Fleeing the fall of northern exposures, sandpipers, plovers, whimbrels and shanks green and red stir the sediment to devour morsels that failed to delve deeply enough. Their local cousins lurk nearby, beaks ready to spear stranded swimmers. Herons, egrets, bitterns stalk in silence while azure halcyons proclaim their catches with noisy ardour. For the few short hours, the soft blanket of silt becomes a hotbed of feasting before the the tidal table is turned in favour of the spineless ones.

A lone dollarbird surveys the canopy. From awkward flaps, a white-bellied sea eagle reaches the updraft circuit and ascends in effortless spirals. The dark understorey is lighted by a flameback who darts from trunk to weathered trunk, his crest ablaze in scarlet erection.

A pair of magpie robins flush themselves from the shrubbery in the direction of an avian foe, the water monitor. Ricky Martin struts close by on waddly little legs, watchful of the fowl-loving lizard if not the silly moniker of red chicken chick bestowed upon him by a trio of unimpressed twatchers.

On the bridge, the gathering ranks of plump archers in patchy uniforms and halfbeaks with tipped spears faced derision from voiced expectations of gaudy flanks. A plumed purple heron that last week brandished a broken mandible is no more, a victim of egregious mishap. Its demise is celebrated by the browsing herds of chromides that line the sluice walls. A tarpon dashes through the gate for the blue water, leaving the grey-green bath of suspended flagellates to muck-feeding mullets and spotty scat-eaters.

The island city of visions too lofty for modest hopes lies far in mind and matter. The roused citadel across the water is shrouded, like a bad dream that looms before a wakeful slumber.

A curious air of calm dogs the walk along this ring road through pools of wings and a forest of elevation. A wandering bliss descends upon each hide of seclusion, becoming an envelope against inbound waves of emotion that threaten to wreck a course out of recidivity. Even the dangers that lurk in these boughs demand little but a respectful distance even amidst a morbid delight in their fatal prowess.

I need this respite. A refuge of sensory overload from a whirlwind of sensibilities that swamp the heart and leave a flood of turbulent anxiety. On these platforms of observance, the day passes in a lazy sarabande of tidal cycles. The wait is never over, but neither is the want.

Comments

[John Larkin]

To my favourite duck,

May I share with you? On the 12th April, 2003, and on the other occasional morning, I escaped to the serenity of the mangroves where life slows down and life takes precedence.

You captured the moment so wistfully with words. My morning was captured visually. Reflections, sunlight, leaves and clouds captured my imagination that morning.

http://www.larkin.net.au/sbwr_120403/index.html

Best wishes
John