Poem: Coorong

Coorong

Salty winds whip the fabric of my shirt

and the water answers,

splash, glide, splash.

Pelican (nori)

dragging me back

to Storm Boy days,

Mr Percival perched in memory’s nest.

Fishermen’s shacks. Weathered bones.

Nets clenched in calloused hands,

fighting isolation,

fighting the long, empty silence.

And me. A kayak, a tent, an oar.

Pullmans Spit.

Yarluwar Ruwe.

Each name,

a tide-tongue song,

whispered in place.

Meeting place.

Breathing place.

This place breaths in salt, in story, in time.

Rebecca Hill grew up with a strong family connection to the Coorong and Murray Mouth. She teaches history and geography at a Waldorf school, during which she shares her background with students. Her poem today, came from a school kayaking camp that was part of a middle school geography course on landscapes. The writing of poetry, short stories, and a love of literature in general, is also found to be a strong reflective tool in working with both students and her own children.

Readers’ original and unpublished poems of up to 40 lines can be emailed, with postal address, to [email protected]. Submissions should be in the body of the email, not as attachments. A poetry book will be awarded to each accepted contributor.