in larapuna, the bay is fired orange
and my foremothers are in the wind

the palm of my hand white after long winter
but my eyes are black, i cannot (un)see
sealed bitumen over the bluff like a strap
nor the pink of perfect apple
tamed sweet, a real lady — 

my foremothers are in the wind,
rubbing grease into saltskin
they grapple the belly-boulders
where i lay, full and fat like a seal

release the last sighs of blood to the sea,
see the tide collect the clots
and drift them like weeds —

patrula, patrula, i turn words in tongue
of kelp shells, scorched by flame
and hurl that apple into the bay,
see it melt into the licking waves
where, it is clear

my foremothers are in the wind
they are gone, always here

Judith Wright Poetry Prize (Third Place)
Supported by the Malcolm Robertson Foundation