postcard from suffolk park
A strong north-easterly funnels up over the scallop of coastal forest that covers the gully above Broken Head.
Broken Head. In certain light there is a head there frowning at the west.
I’d build the house on the low fairway of lawn that overlooks the spilled headland – set it into the hill at the brush line. A big low house with a verandah wide enough for four lounges, old ones. Shutters for the southerlies. A row of boards leaning up against the railing, children and dogs and the promise of snapper later.
This was after walking past some young fellow squatted outside Woolworths today. He was holding a pen and was talking and talking. Flicking the pen up and down, talking out a churn of words. Kerouacan. He had no rug or upturned hat. He was there an hour later, still explaining.
Jackson Pollocks’ paintings don’t lose any perspective when you move closer to them, like those miniature but massive sand cliffs that stretched down the beach. One day someone will find a yellowed bone winnowed out of those dunes, like an old tooth. Someone missing from the days when the Zircon miners walked back to town in the dusk.
Three Plovers watch intently. A pair and a mature chick, birds with good armaments and a bastard attitude when they nest. They don’t like anyone to stop and stare and then slowly walk in their direction. It makes them huffle and walk around a little rigid and with a mounting rage. When they take to the air and to you they do so with great co-ordination. Talons in their wings.
Two women lying face to face by the low dune, talking. Miranda Kerr with her back to me and a dusky Nefertiti topless. Just a glance.
header pic is pollock-8