BRONWYN MEHAN

Surfing in the middle ages

for Risa

If old white girls had totems
yours would be the swooping eagle
you see above Wedding Cake,
mine the bin-hopping ibis
I pass in Glebe park.

Going in off Bondi rocks,
eagle and ibis glide
on streamlined eskylids
across smoked glass
cream carpet shark shadow seaweed.

Wait for the last of the set, you say.

The seventh wave towers above us
a clenched fist.
We launch into its rodeo descent,
braver together than we would ever be alone,
riding the foam-fueled bronco to shore
our faces luminous with joy.

Wet-cozzie driving into an oyster sunset
we talk our kombi dreamtime, invoke
Nambucca, Crescent and Tallows.
Return to our nest partners, TV, Dencorub –
sand grains in the bath.