Is when poems arrive, swooping at me
from across Derbal Yerrigan, diving out of clouds,
caught on wind stampeding up the river,
they fling themselves against the escarpment;

lodge in the tangled arms of tuart trees
where they are mistaken for blossoms
raining to the understorey.

All I have to do is stand, walk, fall, trip
over poems as they lounge on the grass in the arms of a lover,
thrust beaks into nectar and fall about drunk
with the music of Ngoorlarks ringing in their ears.

On hot days they drift across from the blue range
too lazy to speak, sauntering in the slow gait of summer,
marri flowers caught in their hair.

They linger reverently on the mottled bark
of the dying banksia, plangent with devastating
memory shadows pressed lightly into the ground.

I find them lying on the edge of the track;
tiny sentient utterances I need to bend my head to hear,
must stop still and stare as if at a mirage,
shiny bright sculptures broken out of sand.

What choice do I have but to grasp their hands,
let them lead me through the park,
keep my eyes and ears open
let poems fall, let them fly.

by Nandi Chinna.