I walk down south Fremantle beach and the sea calls to me. The winds are cool off the grey sand and the waves are teal and indigo, with cream foam, serenading the beach with soft sighs. The grass is studded with yellow daisies, bright and luscious and violet wildflowers sway back and forth in the gusts. The dunes lie quiescent, scrub-silent. I stand arms outstretched on a rocky outcrop and dedicate myself to peace, love and hope. So mote it be.
Last night’s moon was heavy with knowing. Orange like a burnt offering, it hung above the river and lifted so slowly into the sky you could hear the creak of the effort. Women’s land, tales of sky-spirits and river-snake spirits wending through time to lift the sky. She is spread out in the milky way, this mother, spread out with hair sparkling, spirit-children winking in her braids, twisted in like gems and bone and ribbon. Watch for her, watch for her, secret in the starlight. She is sighing as the moon rises towards her. She is sighing and sobbing, she is soft and the moon hums its warm embrace to her, shh, little mother, shh, the children are safe, the children are safe now.