Mulla Mulla Beach

Before the sea stops a long mile out I hear the blades of fishermen scotching the rocks and their reels beginning to grind like bicycle gears. The sand is smooth but for weed, jelly-fish clear as surgical gloves. I watch the men who fish all day, eyes fast on the water, who were born hearing the sea always there. A place will seep into the voice of any local. I walk where sponges grow like moist yeast, a new world to me, but familiar. I squeeze the sea out. Part of that plain voice goes dead. It is the talk of people living here all year round who wish just to be left alone. Now, at almost dark, a dead confetti of fish-scales sticks to the rocks. There’s no word but the sea’s and tide-winded shells pacing quietly as shore-runners: though sometimes, there is a line, a murmur winding and unwinding in the shells.