Walking the curve of the beach,
hearing the sea and cicadas
watching galahs wheeling red in the morning light,
whitebait coruscating in the rise of the waves
and a forelock of cloud hanging over Coolangatta,
you might easily believe love rules, ok.
But on a closer view you might well wonder,
as you sniff the stink of a flathead gutted on the sand,
or glimpse a vixen tracking through the dunes,
sea gulls plunging into a shoal of whitebait,
and shovel-billed pelicans waiting at the river mouth.
Some, no doubt, find right and just
the harmonies of being killed and killing.
But love led you to know the name of each small fish,
never baiting hooks, never rising to bait:
you got whitebait off the hook—
that is what love does.
Andrew Hamilton SJ