The gullible gulls have ceased searching in vain for tossed chips beside the Tweed River.
And resigned to flap squall to the sea's edge to forage for fish.
The butcher birds are bold and sit in low banksia branches on the foreshore, sharp eyes observing all.
The butterflies have blue hazed the undergrowth and shimmer in the sunlight, sheer delight.
Across the land nature calmly seeks renewal, returning to its rhythms, source and cycles, sage advice.
While we spin
And ache for connection, desperate to leave behind temporal scramblings for security.