La Perouse to Little Bay after the fire Past the small white pill of privileged space Pinging in flight high above the fairways Onto the broken stones of the green flower place We are walking spirit tracks to our histories. Blackened angophora reach out of blasted sand To scribble charcoal script on scratched skins Above pipe-clay pools where scorched banksias stand; Some show lines of smoke-stilled velocity. By the light station the piss-soaked bunkers spy forever Out of concrete sockets lit up in rap hieroglyphics. Wind is on all sides and the shapes we feared never Came between the Cape…