Sunday, April 12, 2009
in which the fish swims through easter
At Easter the light is more oblique and secretive,
The sea having recently had a tantrum, has thrown up vast reams of ocean forest.
This fish swims deep among it and looks up to the light.
Out here each return to the air is a resurrection of sorts.
Close to the silver billow of the surface, darting light:
the garfish pass with not a word. This fish, before she can stop herself, says
happy easter, garfish,
knowing they will of course pretend to know what easter is, when they don't.
All of them turn to stare, their silver, flutelike snouts all briefly stilled . Collectively they say:
Easter. yes, Easter.
WE care not for easter,
and all rush off, haughty and gleaming and thin, leaving the fish to try and remember NOT
to engage with the garfish, so irritating they are.
But what can she do?
She loves them, despite their shallowness, their mass stupidity.
The fish slips back into the day,
for there are lighthouses to look at.
banksias to draw,
love to think about,
aging parents to give an airing to,
and the great huge headland of Barrenjoey to draw also.
The fish turns for a minute, and sees a girl in a yellow dress, leaning on that rail, looking out to sea.
Her hair is blowing in her eyes, but she is watching.
The light shifts then, and she is gone.
Here is an easter cake.
Made by the fish.
And what do you know?
it is all