The Law Loop path binds across the escarpment;
muzzling the fraying scree of the park.

A man in a pink shirt
sits cross-legged on the edge of the track,
sending his thoughts down into the hill
like tap-roots; eyes closed to the water's mirror
where a flock of shags V across the evening pool.

Not yet dark, not yet finished,
traffic grinds across the Narrows Bridge;

one breath at a time the man inhales
jarrah, tuart, banksia, fire;
listens to the birds talking
across centuries into this and now.

That man of bone sits there still,
huge inside the cavity of his body,
holding down the mountain,
as the freeway lights splash diamonds
into the blackening estuary;
as the daylight falls out of the sky.

by Nandi Chinna.