34-37 Degrees South

34-37 DEGREES SOUTH
DIGITAL
ANTHOLOGY
2022

Published 2022 by South Coast Writers Centre,
https://southcoastwriters.org
Copyright © 2022. All rights reserved. Copyright of individual
poems is retained by the authors.
Cover image: Garrigarran, Kirli Saunders (OAM), commissioned
by Wollongong City Council as part of its public art program, and
installed in 2022 at Port Kembla Pool.
Acknowledgements
This publication was produced on unceded Wadi Wadi land and
the poems were written by poets living on the unceded lands
of the Yuin, Dharawal and Wadi Wadi peoples. The editors
acknowledge and pay respect to the Traditional Custodians and
Elders of these lands, our nation’s first storytellers and poets,
and their continued spiritual and cultural connection to, and
custodianship of, Country.
Photo credits: all photos Peter Frankis except p. 15 'Pool' by Joel
Henry, c/- Unsplash https://unsplash.com/@joelhenry;
Typesetting: Peter Frankis
This book is also available in an easy-to-read format.
ii
iii

Foreword
Based at Coledale, near Wollongong, the South Coast Writers
Centre (SCWC) serves writers on the NSW South Coast
between Helensburgh and Eden, and west into the Southern
Highlands (approximately 34 to 37 degrees South latitude).
The SCWC has hosted many poetry groups since it began
25 years ago. One of these, The Poets in the City group, meets
monthly to share their new poetry and hone their craft. This
anthology emerged from that group but also features a wider
range of poets from the SCWC membership.
In this generous collection, on the theme of Coast, I’m pleased
to see some of our well-published poets, including two new
pieces by Ron Pretty, who was instrumental in establishing
the SCWC, as well as Dr Elanna Herbert and Tim Heffernan.
Joining them are newer writers to give the reader a snapshot of
the poetic powerhouse that is the Illawarra, South Coast and
Southern Highlands of NSW.
I congratulate and thank every poet who submitted to this first
digital anthology. The collection is available to read online and
to download and print. We have also made it available in an
easy-to-read format.
I am delighted to present 34 to 37 Degrees South for 2022.
Dr Sarah Nicholson
Director
South Coast Writers Centre
December 2022
iv
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Introduction
From my window I can see,
Where the sandhills dip,
One far glimpse of open sea.
Dorothea Mackellar, ‘The Open Sea’ (c.1908)
Australians are a coastal bunch. Many of us live within 50
kilometres of the ocean. Our holidays, our tourism marketing,
our postcards with ‘Wish you were here’ feature turquoise oceans
and uncrowded sands. Even our national anthem references (albeit
awkwardly) our coastal lifestyle.
Our thanks also to the reader panel—Linda Albertson, Norm
Fairbairn and Amelia Fielden—who, along with the committee,
read all 41 submissions and provided clear feedback and
guidance. And special thanks to to the fantastic Ms Tao Gower-
Jones, the University of Wollongong intern for this project, for
her work on the reader panel and with the editorial committee.
Given that, it seems natural that our poetry should turn to the sea
as a place of relaxation, pleasure and fond memories. Yet, while
celebrating the coast, these poems also speak of disasters such as
the fires of 2019-20, which affected so many on the coast, as well
as personal histories such as a car carking it in sight of the coast.
Train trips, dispossession, migration, love and loss are all here.
The collection is divided into three chapters. ‘Coasting Along’
features poems about journeys: international, regional and the
daily commute. ‘Hyper-local’ showcases poems that celebrate
place: evocations of a bridge, a lake or a forest in blossom. The
final chapter, ‘On the Edge: Coastal Histories, Coastal Anxieties’
presents poems about personal histories as well as worries for the
future in unstable times.
vi
The editorial committee, Peter Frankis, Linda Godfrey and Judi
Morison, would like to thank each of the 24 poets who submitted
works to this our first digital anthology. To those who were selected,
bravo; to those who were unsuccessful this time, keep writing,
keep working at this most difficult craft.
vii

Contents
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Introduction
1. COASTING ALONG 1
Odd is he Ron Pretty 2
Far South Elanna Herbert 3
Pelican Ed Southorn 5
Landing Linda Mcquarrie-Bowerman 6
At Bass Point Norm Fairbairn 7
Two Coasts Brid Morahan 8
The Princes Highway Melanie Weckert 10
Perfect Ron Pretty 11
A place for coming back to Stephen Meyrick 12
Coast Moira Kirkwood 13
2. HYPER-LOCAL 15
Anaphora, to the taste
of coastal bloom Elizabeth Walton 16
Sunset creek Kai Jensen 18
Almost Summer Dorothy Swoope 19
Mermaid Pool Berrara Elanna Herbert 20
Letting Go Linda Mcquarrie-Bowerman 22
Coastal Wind Col Henry 24
Dog watch Stephen Meyrick 26
At the Bridge Ed Southorn 27
Somewhere
on the Anagram Coast Jonathan Cant 28
iii
v
vi
3. ON THE EDGE: COASTAL HISTORIES,
COASTAL ANXIETIES 31
Umbrella Alerts: Amelia Fielden 32
excerpts from a 2022
La Niña tanka diary
Orcas Kathleen Bleakley 34
If … Myfanwy Hudson 36
the link Lajos Hamers 38
the end of water Tim Heffernan 39
reading the mercury Tim Heffernan 40
Black Holes in Green Hills Dorothy Swoope 41
This naked lake rests Elanna Herbert 42
I found this jawbone
at the sea’s edge Paris Rosemont 44
South Beach to
North Beach Myfanwy Hudson 45
NOTES ON THE POETS 47
viii
ix

1. COASTING ALONG
xi

Odd is he
Ron Pretty
Far South
Elanna Herbert
Odd, is he? Us on the wine dark sea endless to the farthest island we
sail fond in a boat. A rope in my hand his hand on my knee. Calls
me frail. Ten years before wall-fall he say? Fights ten years? Swears
on knees. Ten weeks more like. And that’s a sail set tight to catch
the breeze. Him fight at that Trojan wall? Don’t make me laugh.
Him fight in tent with Cally Ipso Facto. (Me). I jump in skiff. He
follow fast like devil-sent. Him of the hymns for calmest sea sail
gently a-flap. Never an albatross, shark or whale him to frighten.
Steadily he bails but when the sea stirs he’s a total loss. Odd, is he?
Us stern down (heavy he is) adrift on the sparkling sea no map or
compass, but search my land where my web keeps him free. Ithika
it ain’t. Where Penny lopin’ in the kitchen doin’ her stitchin’ with
all the would-bees waitin’ there rattlin’ scabbards an’ all day bitchin’.
Crankier yet those swains will be finding ten years to wait and more
before I sick of him, swim away leave him driftin’ to his waiting
shore. Odd is he. O, us on the wine dark sea at last to the farthest
isle he sail. Him home at last. Me cough him up, hand him on, my
fabulant male.
driving the tourist road to Narooma, life gets feral
outside Moruya. things relax, not me, just the locals.
the lady with the multicoloured hair, four loud colours
on the over 65s feels like one decibel too many. then
the girl in the organic veg shop waves me through, stays
on her phone, smiles as I tap and go. I expect nothing less
from a town where highway house gardens hold lambs close.
crossing Coila Creek, landscape folds like dry calico
no matter the time of year. at Tuross, I fail to arrive, boxes
kept firmly shut are flung open as Pandora’s glorious
sea breeze, rolling up the hill, hits me with my mid 70s
summer—two teenagers on the beach. before you were killed.
before your seventeen should have arrived (despair never
lets me turn off to the lake). at Bodalla, much younger with
Mum and Grandma, my childish horror at finding a one
legged seagull on the cheese factory roof, Mum’s joke about
where its leg went. summer of ’69 bringing seagull not raven
as the harbinger of Grandma’s own amputation, mise en scène
on the far south coast always collides with emotion, things stay
raw. too many ghosts lie in wait, or maybe childhood instinct, still
keen as a feral cat, reclaims, over and over my early coast trips
2 3

Pelican
brazen simplicity. it’s no wonder then, my lack of surprise
when I saw through a haze of smoke so thick that even
television couldn’t disguise it’s taste, the goat woman from
Cobargo, wearing her black and blackened Led Zepp T-shirt
shouting at ScoMo, concisely shrinking him down hard, after
his ill-timed holiday to Hawaii, and her fire fight that day
against a nightmare. impossible to comprehend.
Ed Southorn
Caribou DHC-4 incoming
In still air elegance
Becomes you we’ve landed
Barge arse backs up smoko
Hey Jack got a durry?
Strut look around
Unfenced level block
All sand floods every day
By the concrete bridge
Flat circle no cooking here
Our salty selection
We are boss big mouth
Sharp smile tip the cap
Laughing cargo load
Watch ’em wriggle goin’ south
Burp scratch flash a wink
Hey Bob can’t say I do
How ’bout a prawn cocktail?
4 5

Landing
Linda Mcquarrie-Bowerman
At Bass Point
Norm Fairbairn
Yesterday I plucked sand out of crevices that ached
like they hadn’t seen the light of day since one of my past lives
and this morning I wake in a bed a long way from a bench seat
on a bus with dirty windows, and a suitcase full of budget-priced reminders
of where/what/who I was leaving.
The sea, grey brushed metal, sometimes cerulean blue, is my new kin:
its surface mirrors my surface, undulating, as if mysterious restless creatures
writhe underneath, impatient to breach.
From my door, I can see a bank of trees shadowing a rock shelf where fishermen
risk their lives, the ocean’s froth boiling
around their legs, and watching them, I hold my breath. And I hold my breath
when I realise where I’ve ended up and when I notice
seaweed clinging to driftwood or scuttling hermit crabs or a girl
strolling the beach her buttocks smooth as half moons
and I have to remind myself to exhale, to keep my eyes on the horizon
splitting from the sky and to believe that I am as Amphitrite,
the orchestrator of my own metamorphosis.
At Bass Point
lovers crocheted together tan and stretch
pointing north towards Warilla and the lake.
The hang glider pelican at full spread
occupies the same amount of sky
as the flock of gulls above it.
At Bass Point
there are no meeting rooms, no plug ins,
no screens to premiere both good and bad corporate pictures,
no docking ports and no swipe cards to the reserve.
Here after-work drinks are served all day
and every deadline moveable with the tide.
At Bass Point
the sapphire blue
cuts through the rock shelves
filling sharp canals running landwards,
its shoreline ruled by the unshaven in crumpled hats
who see the funny side of an empty hand line,
local gulls who never want to see another city
form focus groups where bait fish swirl.
At Bass Point
you cast off all your bad decisions
Luna Park smile at the good ones
and become that gull.
6 7

Two Coasts
Brid Morahan
You drew the two together,
those coasts—far flung.
I’d felt each as its own,
I didn’t know they could be otherwise.
I always saw the separation,
parted by those tracts of sea and land, age and custom
but you made them one—
brought the crinkles of your coast
to the flatiron edge of mine,
wrinkled, smoothed
until they were one.
Yours is wild, weathered, wind-tossed,
all tonal merging, ill-defined
under glowering cloud banks.
There cliffs aver the sea, tickle
it with shingle, dropped hard
or in a trickle, eking away
the face into its salt bath curative.
Mine is hard-edged with horizons
cerulean on cobalt, set-squared
under white puffs of cumulus.
Here sands embrace the sea, teasing
it with whispers, soft-duned
or in spirals, eddying about
the skin in its own floatation tank.
Here, there, jumbled bodies tumble
in the undertow of slaty sunshine,
salty lips, laughter,
surf-craft and off-leash dogs.
8 9

The Princes Highway
Melanie Weckert
Perfect
Ron Pretty
The colony was
an evil thing
it snaked along
a poisonous course.
Move aside
we’re coming through!
to multiply
procreate
dominate.
Flinty hooves
ruined soil
ancient bones
Murnong spoilt
its roots exposed.
I hear the sounds
of ancient groans.
Coastal meander
Ant-nest fringed
eucalypts, tree fern
paddocks cleared.
Gurnai to Yuin
Jirribitti Dreaming
the snake must
shed its skin.
It was a little Austin with a Prefect
motor. Perfect, yes? he said. Reconditioned.
A perfect beauty. Well, the boy was young, green
about the gills as his father used to say.
So he bought the pitch and the car. The Austin
had pitch on its roof. Was a convertible
in an earlier life. The youth used it to
drive from Helensburgh to Balmain. A Teachers’
College kid. Product of a sickly youth, but
they were short of males, so he was pressed into
the footie team just the same. Hooker. Safest place
for a bloke so skinny. They didn’t win much,
but he was liked for taking some of the team
to their matches. Hair-raising, it was, crossing
the Bridge with a steering so loose he struggled,
white around the gills, to stay in the proper lane.
It had to end someday, and it did, with a
metallic rattle. At Waterfall, he was,
going home after another defeat when
the car carked it. Got out, looked at the trail of
oil and metal fragments littering the road.
NRMA said, piston through the crankcase,
wasn’t it. Perfect end to a less-than-perfect car.
10 11

A place for coming back to
Stephen Meyrick
(A response to Grown Ocean’s ‘O, Revenant’ from Memory Gardens)
For commuters aboard the express heading south from the city,
holding laptops and grievances close to their chests, or with faces
bent intently as they type or they text; for the shoppers with brandboosting
bags, who are talking too loudly and talking too much—
every evening, this place is a place for coming back to.
For the young who, when schooling is over, take flight from the smokestacks
and steel mills, and head off as fast as they can for the lights
and delights of New York, or of London or Paris; who now
look for streams that flow deeper and lives that their children can live—
this place lies here waiting, as a place for coming back to.
Coast
Moira Kirkwood
I’ve allowed an unravelling and the world seems pleased.
High-octane’s so urgent: leisure prefers a lazy purr.
My shoulder muscles have taken the night off; the breeze
has shimmied up, laid lips on my skin.
More pleasing still, I can see from here
all the hills head down.
For musicians and artists who once spurned provincial roots,
reputation secured on the international stage,
now bestowing their benisons, bowing, accepting plaudits
from the stay-at-home crowd with a smiling, patronising grace,
adulation makes this place a place for coming back to.
For Dharawal people—shore-dwellers, eaters of fish—
in the hills far away from the sounds that belong to belonging
(of the waves and the cry of the gulls on the beach) when they’re done
with the stories of Dreaming and meeting with strangers or friends
there was always this place—a place for coming back to.
And when those who—(like me) through conviction, convenience, or
as a lame and pretentious façade—might claim they have no roots
reach the road that emerges from forest to show the slow curve
of the thumbprint where God pressed the mountain down to the sea—
they know in their hearts this is their place for coming back to.
12 13

2. HYPER-LOCAL

Blossom of Granny Smith. Domestic
malus. Frail-skin bonnets, rocking to sweet. Immerse
sprigs in seaside spring-water then sip. Falls to the mouth through summer fresh
meadows. No crunch but the essence is there.
Blossom of pear, flushed with a brushed on
throat of crimson hair. Rushing stamens invite the kiss of the
coast, legs of blue banded bees, compressed in Pyrus-pollen. Be
quick. Perianth. Be quick. Place in the mouth and swizzle.
Anaphora, to the taste of coastal bloom
Elizabeth Walton
Blossom of almond. Pink stamen, falling to regal
shorelines of sepal. The hint of heat and the bloom is undone to the
calyx. So quick. In the mouth Mmmm...Amande.
Mmm... Allllllmond. Drizzled in marzipan.
Blossom of plum. House of man, Plum ‘The Czar’. Plum ‘Victoria’, house of woman.
Spent king, white petal, old queen, white coat, take even turns in rotational
symmetry. To the sea, bitter now, though dulce in summer, should kingdoms of
parrots and pupae consent.
Blossom of almond, plum, apple and pear. Suck and then
see. Prunus amygdalus, prunus dulcis. Malus, persica. Peaches in
honey. Pears on crushed ice by the beach. Persian
drupes, and ancient pomes. Petalled pentagons of bliss.
16 17

Sunset creek
Kai Jensen
for Chloe Spear
The roadside trunks are in shadow
but the sun’s still on the treetops
with that orange last light glow;
and here’s the surf club carpark
where a few travellers and locals
linger watching the sea darken
the waves now jade green.
Beyond the land’s shadow
the sun’s still on the island,
picking out the white toothpick
of the lighthouse, the white cottages.
It’s a calm evening, yet the sea’s
busy as ever, wave crests collapsing,
so it’s restful to turn to the creek,
held aloof from the commotion
by a thick bar of sand:
a long reddish-brown pool,
it reflects the haggard trunks
of stunted tea-tree on the far side.
Almost Summer
Dorothy Swoope
Invisible seams splinter
pop pop
almost summer.
Spotted gum camouflage flakes,
then crackles to confettied earth.
The ground is littered with loosened leaves,
filigrees of gum blossoms,
and tiny red tipped golden trumpets,
from the mistletoe above.
Reaching up, creamy smooth limbs
show creases like new born skin.
Startlingly cool to touch,
they breathe the heat that has released
a cacophony of cicadas,
cracked casings clinging everywhere.
Four gulls hunch on the bank, then
Invisible seams splinter
all at once take wing above the creek mouth
pop pop
which is turning mauve now
almost summer.
reflecting the chilly winter evening sky;
then on slow wings they turn,
glide low and settle
exactly where they were.
18 19

Mermaid Pool Berrara
Elanna Herbert
if you could run your fingers across this place
sea and sand salt-bush laying on a scent of pepper
you will find my edge delineated in sea-glass
aqua clear marine bejewelled emerald inset with
ultraviolet flashes as shadow falls to liquid sapphire
if you could run your fingers across this place
swim stroke breathe wave breathe surf breathe dive
taste salt summer silt cocooned within this space
you will find my edge delineated in sea-glass
sunlight filters fool’s gold flecks shimmers of
silver patterns lines flow solitude I float drift
if you could run your fingers across this place
sink blood sink body sink diamond light refracted
clear to my centre a salt-moist ocean it is there
you will find my edge delineated in sea-glass
to ache with the necessity of breathing of breath
interrupting water's grace of certitude it is here
you will find my edge delineated in sea-glass
if you could run your fingers across this place
20 21

Letting Go
Linda Mcquarrie-Bowerman
I’ve reached the beach, skipped down the weathered wooden steps, and stopped eyes closed
to listen to the sacred talking of the sand: it whispers, hisses,
and whips my naked shins, the sting
reminding me of hurtled words slapping rigid air between us.
We are scattered shells along this dawn-tinged littoral: me
and one old woman in her crumpled cotton spotted shirt, a faceless surfer now an elongated dot
atop a white-tipped frothy plume—he bobs and dips and I’m reminded of a lover
I once had his bony limbs caught fast between my knees both of us entangled
in purple frayed chenille—as one silent seagull glides by wings splayed
over a sinking dune, a solitary plover teetering on legs like twigs
impaling me with its black and beady eyes. I twitch my shoulders stiff and smarting
at the sting of the sun, my shadow
dark and stretched ahead, dripping down towards the waterline.
I shiver as I watch the thrashing of a lone untethered skiff
whose ropes have slipped their orange mooring buoy and I sense a slow untethering
of ropes invisible and tightly-knotted binding me to thoughts of you. I imagine
every memory adrift on ripples: shrinking muted specks moving closer to a flat horizon
as I stand and turn, my grateful shadow now behind me relieved of its responsibility
to keep me company; it is extinguished as a long slim cloud, white egret
stretched in flight, casts its shade.
22 23

Coastal Wind
Col Henry
A secret should not be revealed
lest it drift on the coastal wind
gossip is washing pegged on a line
the risk of words jumbling through the air
mixed messages tumbling down
on willing ears held to the wind
that swoops through city alleys
where poor souls search for scraps
and succour for their minds
for who knows where our dreams would fly
at the sole mercy of the wind
perhaps never to return again
to the souls from which they came
We push against the wind so often
when progress is denied
until we grow weak and weary
and learn the wind must have its way
As eyelids droop each fading day
chill air falls on still bare skin
a silent moon watches thoughtful
through the foliage of the clouds
we drift asleep without awareness
breathing flowing rhythmic in and out
an act we take for granted
the wind we need for life
cradle to the grave
Like children flying kites
at the whimsy of the coastal wind
we watch the flimsy frames soaring to the heights
the handlines fully out
we feel the pulling of the wind
lurking fear of losing hold
24 25

Dog watch
Stephen Meyrick
At the Bridge
Ed Southorn
An ordinary Sunday, overcast
but warm. Receding figures pick their way
along the beach, avoiding wrack from last
night’s storm. Bare-legged and squealing, children play
at the margin of the surf. Capricious waves
respond—a subtle game of test and tease.
The black-and-tan leaps for a ball—behaves,
as all dogs should, like beasts well-trained to please—
except, this time, it stops, well short, lays down
its prize and waits. A young man barks, reproves:
‘Here, boy!’, and slaps his thigh, and casts a frown.
But still, at last, it is the man that moves—
which proves the calculating canine mind
superior to the vaunted human kind.
We slow down, settle in
Front row seat, the open sky
Obviously, it’s seen better days
Still, plovers flash in the wings
Humpbacks squash the stalls
Sea eagles own the rafters
No one disappointed
The soundtrack is off key
Fats Waller in his cups
More fractured wind chime
Than shiny baby grand
Anyway you listen
The melody is worn loose
Rhythm boggy as wet sand
Soft under stout wood
Deep cracked and tilted
Holding up, that’s the charm
Smile now wave a small
Blessing, it’s my turn to roll
Begin my Cuttagee sonata
26 27

Somewhere on the Anagram Coast
Jonathan Cant
1.
“Somewhere” is an evocative word. A river… somewhere.
Somewhere… over the rainbow. Somewhere… to semi-retire.
Somewhere, in my mind’s eye, there’s a sleepy, little seaside village.
Somewhere “far away in time”—like the fictional Echo Beach.
Somewhere like that Mexican beer “from where you’d rather be”. A state of mind.
Somewhere sitting by a bonfire playing reggae tunes on a beat-up, old, acoustic guitar.
Somewhere in the thirtysomething-degree-southern latitudes—but not temperatures.
Somewhere with a lush, hilly hinterland. Somewhere in the country and on country.
2.
I know the kinda place that’ll please me most: down on the coast Somewhere I can
beachcomb, swim, snorkel, boogie board and just coast along. As for attire,
I like to keep it casual. No flashy, expensive shoes, suits or coats for me. I’m more at home
in a T-shirt, cargo shorts and sandals. Never been a fancy ascot tie-wearing kinda guy.
I wanna live somewhere rich in culture—that won’t cost a whole lot.
Somewhere with green forests and a green economy—like Costa Rica—but here in Oz.
Somewhere the morning sun coats the beach like warm
honey on toast. Somewhere you can fish, eat tacos and sip smoky mezcal
from a tin cup. Where the shallow water is shades of green tosca teal and turquoise.
The sky is Capri-coloured with zero octas of cloud cover.
And now that the coast is clear, I’m gonna make
that sea-change, tree-change, brand-new-me-change cos at this moment, I’m ready.
I’m heading for somewhere real—where I can act so naturally that I’m not
acting at all. I think I’ll settle Somewhere on the Anagram Coast.
Note: Echo Beach was a 1980 one-hit-wonder by Canadian band Martha and the Muffins.
28 29

3.ON THE EDGE
COASTAL HISTORIES
COASTAL ANXIETIES

Umbrella Alerts: excerpts from a 2022
La Niña tanka diary
Amelia Fielden
February 9
February 11
dismal Monday
this coastal La Niña
hovering
even the seagulls
complain of the rain
blurred ship-shapes
glide along the pencil line
between dim sky
and gunmetal ocean—
where is summer hiding
March 9
April 8
my little dog
walks diagonally
ears flapping
in the howling wind
drenched streets start to dry
a ‘rain bomb’
explodes over the ’gong,
I google
instructions on how to
construct an ark
February 24
a flotilla
of pelicans sailing
the golf course,
sodden lorikeets
huddling on my balcony
March 5
watched
through salted windows, the sea
heaves grey and white
while I hunker down
in a blue armchair
32 33

Orcas
Kathleen Bleakley
for Px
four pelicans glide through lake mist
one towards me
wintry camping breakfast
steaming tea: toasting you
next month would be your 67th birthday
nearly four years ago
we watched pelicans on Lake Illawarra
in those waning days
you coming home to me
ringing your bicycle bell
discarding your helmet and work
toasting to us with our pre dinner beer
slow dining, sharing fruits of our garden and days
nightime, sheltering
in the cove
of your embrace
Here in Eden
looking out for killer whales
over the deep cobalt expanse
Remember us, seventeen years back
crossing the strait: Vancouver Island
to Orcas Island
you on deck the whole way
capturing every fin, slap and spray
your first and only Orcas encounter
On a windy cliff at Eden
I’m reaching back into years of
coming home
you smiling all the way downstairs
to the front door
34 35

If …
Myfanwy Hudson
If you stay too long in the sea
The mermaids will take you, her cousin said,
A bored babysitter, fourteen.
Reluctantly, she exited, four and in love
With wave width,
Sand texture
in love with all that
reliably rose and fell
If she leaves now, she thinks
She will arrive before the families,
Thirty-nine and sensible she arrives at dawn
Seeking solace, she wades into the North Beach rock pools
A hermit crab peers from its jagged crevice,
Watching, not judging
As she floats on her back
As the rising sky blinds her
and the ocean becomes her.
If you walk on the cliff rocks alone
The men will take you, her mother said.
Instead, she brought a kitchen knife
and clambered along capricious cliffs
Seventeen, in love with all that was
Predictably harsh, in love with a
A cadence of crest and crash.
If you bring a towel,
we’ll be more comfortable, the boy said.
Twenty-one and agreeable,
she lay in the Scarborough alcove
hidden but exposed.
Twenty-one and watching beyond him
Wanting the salt on her skin
Her body submerged
As the shallows consumed her.
36 37

the link
Lajos Hamers
the end of water
Tim Heffernan
that sweet mauve dusk
the ocean ‘like a lake’
tranquillity floating
tiny splashes awake
attention
school of poddy mullet
flitter by
tickled, then
torpedoing after them
a penguin
I am
a floating reverie of nature
then, revelation
of an ascending food chain
hurries me out
of the water
let the water do the work
to find entropy
to smooth things
the dried breakfast cereal
the burnt pots and pans
the bends in rivers
the edges of the land
the mountains
the off-leash beaches
the skins of things
the washed-up sea dragons
the unending plasticity
as I dry
the water leaves me
sunken faced
parched and rasping
but where does your water go
and did i breathe in yours
even as you gasped
even as i swabbed your mouth
even as you died
38 39

eading the mercury
Tim Heffernan
Black Holes in Green Hills
Dorothy Swoope
joel felt the pull of this place, and then also the reasons for moving
away. he often wondered about the exits, and today, reading the
mercury, he felt uneasy. four months of restricted travel out of town
concerned him. they blamed it on falling rocks, but he knew there
was more to it than that. bulli pass is closing he blurted out as they
were coming off the m1 past the southern gateway. i’m worried
about getting back up once we go down, what if ousley and
macquarie pass go out too? we could be trapped in wollongong. shit
she replied, that would mean the cars could not get up from pt
kembla and the steel works might melt if we factor in climate change
and roadworks. anxious, we tried to deal with the anxiety, so we
breathed in out in out. the full moon shifted things.
We travel through black holes in green hills,
lush rainforest with steep descents to the sea
the horizon a smeared bruise of smoke
from autumn hazard reduction burns.
There is something comforting about riding
the train in the middle of the day
the alternating click and clack in the ‘quiet car’
where only station announcements break the rhythm.
Beside the track lies abandoned industry:
chutes and funnels, remnants of the coal loader
now rusting in sea air. Once it bellowed
a cacophony of sound and rained black dust
over the village below.
From the last carriage I see the front of the train
as we corner the terrain and I wonder
where is everyone going
and where have we been.
40 41

This naked lake rests
Elanna Herbert
after the fires: she is shamed, her corset of trees flayed
denuded. this naked lake no longer settles: she is restless
despite the new rise orange blood moon
spring swallows seek familiar eaves, nest in lost houses
gaps staining their valley. do swallows imagine a concept
of apocalypse as they breathe continuum, fly confused by absence?
the surf break—a left-hander, staying long off Green Island—
across the broken sandbar inside Conjola Island, lost in sand
beside Princess Island, Oyster Point remembers shellfish
popping on hot coals, the chatter of children up past
Picnic Bay to Conjola Creek. this lake twice drowned
by river valleys, folded by creek, still marked in change
calm bays lay down before fire, naked, stripped
by flame.
this lake.
the cutaway for the new retaining wall holds no lies, a layer
of ash, carbon of recent burn, otherwise glutinous clay
layered by rich alluvial terrace—and us here living the
first hard burn—ten thousand years to mark this soil
has climate change brought you clarity yet?
before loss: 1962 drew a coastal village, lake views sliced blocks
from a stolen dairy paddock woven through a sideways riff
of Spotted Gum bush. now silent, regrowth thick, epicormic. this
once was, in the time of shellfish and fish traps. of ochre and song.
the time of story, if you have a mind to listen to the Yuin
in the flood no one believes a fury of fire, imagines the day
a nightmare, buries it quick in softer rain, South Coast returns
its autumn: in mist this naked lake wraps herself close
disappears beyond Killarney, with the distance of hill
becomes Scottish Loch, shifts her gaze, glances east where
Cunjurong Point belies Caledonian provenance, washing
42 43

I found this jawbone at the sea’s edge
Paris Rosemont
South Beach to North Beach
Myfanwy Hudson
a perfect specimen encased
in stone; just a hint of sawtooth
glinting pearl against charcoal
compressed sediments sandwiching
mineral and bone.
How came you to lie in your seaside
tomb after centuries of voyaging through
amniotic womb cradling your languid hull?
Weightless through time until shipwrecked
you rest your weary head
on pillow of sand and rocky bed at the foot
of cliffs, howling wind-whipped as spiky
tufts of marram grass quiver in awe of
your greatness. Ammonites lay
themselves in sacrificial offering fused
by your side in the hope of hitching
a ride with you into the next life.
we grew ourselves up through this sea
lay on spinifex sand, screeching
at sulphur stars and orange skies
night-time meandering
to watch the peach sun rise
above the old Norfolk Pines
we raised ourselves up through the sea
seventeen in kelp-coated lace and
Smirnoff-soaked loam
sea-glass hearts and driftwood bone
our bellies swallowed the horizon
to gulp down the sky
we were seventeen,
our mouths held back the tides.
44 45

NOTES
ON THE POETS

Kathleen Bleakley (KB) was born on the Moroccan coast. She
lives in Wollongong. KB’s sixth collection, two hearts, and previous
chapbooks are available @ https://www.ginninderrapress.com.au.
Jonathan Cant’s poetry has been commended and listed in various
awards and has featured in numerous literary journals and
anthologies.
Norman Fairburn has published five collections of poetry and
two children’s books. He has won several awards and appeared in
anthologies published around the world.
Amelia Fielden By profession a translator, Amelia writes mostly in
traditional Japanese poetry forms. She has been a contented coastal
resident since mid-2021.
Lajos Hamers is an actor, writer, storyteller of Hungarian folk tales
and wearer of fine kilts.
Tim Heffernan has published online and in a number of
anthologies, most recently in Upswell’s Admissions. He was awarded
the 2016 joanne burns prize.
Col Henry Male, seventy-eight years, late-starter writing poetry.
The words come and he writes them down. Hopefully, they have
meaning.
Elanna Herbert’s work is found in Australian journals and
anthologies, most recently Westerly, Foam:e, Science Write Now,
StylusLit. Winner of the June Shenfield National Poetry Award
2021, Elanna holds a PhD in Communication.
Kai Jensen lives at Wallaga Lake, near Bermagui. His poems
have appeared in many literary journals in Australia and New
Zealand.
Moira Kirkwood Whether she’s writing or painting, Moira
must constantly remind herself: this is a dance, not a fight.
Linda Mcquarrie-Bowerman lives in Lake Tabourie, NSW.
She has written most of her poetry since 2021 and is completing
her degree in Creative Writing at Curtin University.
Steve Meyrick Born in Wales, Steve Meyrick has been a
Wollongong resident for more than 30 years. He has been
writing poetry for most of his (now rather long) life, but has
only recently made any of his work public.
Brid Morahan is a writer living in Wollongong. Her name
is an Irish language form of Bridget, and pronounced breedj.
www.editproof.com.au
Ron Pretty has been reading, writing and publishing poetry for
more than sixty years and has published a dozen books and
chapbooks.
Paris Rosemont is currently working on her first collection of
poetry. She has performed her poetry at events including the
Sydney Fringe Festival 2022. Website: www.parisrosemont.
com
Ed Southorn is a Bermagui poet. He was a newspaper reporter
for 30 years. His PhD explores contested space.
Dorothy Swoope is an award-winning poet and author of the
memoir, Wait ‘til Your Father Gets Home!
48 49

Elizabeth Walton is a multi-disciplinary artist who lives in an
organic food forest. Awards: Anne Edgeworth Fellowship (2022)
Shortlisted: Woollahra Digital Literary Prize (2022); AAWP
Emerging Writers Prize (2021).
Melanie Weckert a retired research scientist, now enjoys writing
in Merimbula. Two of her poems have been published in FourW
anthology.
Myfanwy Williams is a novelist and poet from the NSW South
Coast. Follow her on Instagram @writermyf or
www.word-upon-word.com.
The Editors
Judi Morison is a Gamilaroi writer whose work has been published
in various literary journals. She is the recipient of the 2022
Boundless Indigenous Writer’s Mentorship.
Linda Godfrey lives and works on the land of the Wadi Wadi
people and is thankful to be here. She writes prose and poetry, but
especially prose poetry.
Peter Frankis’ first poetry chapbook, Shorely, was published in
2022 by Ginninderra Press and his poem ‘8 ways to look at an
octopus’ was joint winner of the 2022 Wollongong Art Gallery
Prize.
Tao Gower-Jones is a passionate English Literature student originally
from the Riverina area. She is an active member of the Arts
faculty in the University of Wollongong community and hopes to
put her skills to use in a publishing career.
This digital anthology from the
South Coast Writers Centre presents fresh
new coastal poetry from emerging and
award-winning local writers, including:
Kathleen Bleakley, Jonathan Cant, Norman
Fairburn, Amelia Fielden, Lajos Hamers,
Tim Heffernan, Col Henry, Elanna Herbert,
Kai Jensen, Moira Kirkwood, Linda Mcquarrie-
Bowerman, Steve Meyrick, Brid Morahan,
Ron Pretty, Paris Rosemont, Ed Southorn,
Dorothy Swoope, Elizabeth Walton,
Melanie Weckert and Myfanwy Williams.
50