, , , , ,

I haven't walked on the headland for many months, in fact not since the passion for rock pools began. Today, that is where my booted feet took me, prepared for puddles and slush, and with no idea what to expect. The sound of heavy machinery was ominous. Unlike the cacophony of frogs, it didn't stop as I approached, and the heavy sea wasn't loud enough to drown out the irritating backing beepbeepbeep. I stopped hearing it when I realised it was on the village side of the backed up creek.

Flowerings began in my front yard. The mint bush was dense with purple-spotted flowers, and both pink and white blueberry ash were crowded with delicate fringed bells. Along the track, orange flowers nestled amongst callistemon greenery; white tea tree blossom massed on the one tree surviving a track clearing exercise some time ago. I spotted a hyacinth orchid which soon became a couple of colonies as my eye tuned in, although the perfect photo still eludes me. Three yellow-tailed black cockatoos flew out of the banksias in front of me at head height. The breakers rolled in and Gulaga loomed beneath a blue sky thick with white clouds. Dark blue striped the silvery-rippled ocean.

Behind the dunes, green moss hosted a fiddlesticks-scatter of casuarina needles: lomandra spiked in yellow clusters against green bracken; branches twisted aslant, parallelling each other; and the ground where birds had been feeding looked like the floor around the high chairs after my grandtwins have breakfasted.