CARAVAN PARK

Geographe Bay:  Dawn



                            

‘all sites have full hook-up facilities’

‘all sites are shaded by established trees’

all sites are occupied by sleeping families
and nothing stirs all black night
among the beetled vans and tents
 that shelter beneath the hanging
 peppermint myrtles:

nothing stirs but leaves, black, that pat,
they tap, as and when the air
adjusts, it shifts:

nothing stirs but leaves, and a possum
 scratching at bark as it leaps,
   scrambles, claws rasping, white-
   tipped tail curling to grasp:

a possum that rustles, clambers among
  branches as it scouts, hunts for shoots,
white flowers of the myrtles:

a possum that knows not to stray, roam,
but to keep to its trees, and it
sprays as it clasps, making its
country, remaking its country:
             
and through the night, nothing that stirs
  but the leaves, and the possum,
  and the sleeping travellers who
  turn and kick as they sleep for
  the day that will break, all else
  being still, so still, so very still,
waiting, and waiting:

and dawn, then dawn comes, it comes,
and then with the breaking a
 child cries out, it cries, it cries
 as if it knows, as if it really
  knows, somehow it knows:

and a poly-cotton annexe is zipped
 open and a gas jet hisses and
  the door of a ute slams and
 a mouth yawns at a window
  of a Jayco eighteen-footer
  and a man rubs his eyes as
  he trudges to the ablution
  block where he spouts into
  a trough of staled yellow and
  curlies and sodden filters of
   Marlboro, Longbeach, Peter
Jackson, Winfield:
 
reddening dawn, roseate dawn,
sweet and beautiful dawn,
as poets might voice it,
a sacred time, they might well say,
as day declares, unseals,
reveals what has to be revealed,
no more, no less:

reveals the sky, insistent sky, persistent,
 that presses, bears down, holds sway:

reveals the grey-greenness of the heath
and the bush, the daisy bush
and the basket bush, the salt
bush, that squat on the dunes
that hunch along the bay:

reveals the rough fibrous grey-brown
bark, furrowed, of the trees
that spread, hanging down
over the numbered sites where
 people, chocked and pegged,
 cough, they sniff, mutter:

and reveals the butts stubbed into the
 trampled thin-grassed sands
 among the tossed bottle-tops
 and the bits of plastic and the
 teddy-bear eyes of broken glass
that stare forever, stare almost forever:

and reveals the sandals chucked from
sweaty feet, the damp towels
smelling of damp, the scuffed
balls, muddied bicycles, dead coals,
a T-shirt that lies where it was dropped:
SAVE THE TREES PLEEZ:

and reveals the flies that buzz about the
wheelie-bins rich with peelings
and scraps and bones, greasy tins
emptied of sweetcorn, baked beans,
 Greenseas tuna (chunky, in vegetable oil):
   
and reveals the bikies lying senseless
beside black bikes and a stuff-
off-and-get-a-life youth who
scowls from a daggy swag
and a woman puffing at a smoke
as she claws through a box of food:

and reveals the dew-wet vans and tents
that glitter as the light strikes at
them, as it strikes at them, as it
strikes at them:

all is dawn, all is become day, all is lit
and told, revealed, but not where
the possum hides in a leaf-lined
hollow above, above, high among
the weeping peppermints






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