Stopping For The Twelve Apostles

So this is where the land goes

south: pink crumbling stacks,

geology on speed, earth-clouds.

So fast when one of them dropped

its brittle link with the mainland ––

‘London Bridge’ fallen to

‘London Arch’ –– the abrupt island

supported a population: two

startled tourists on hold

for a helicopter. I point my camera

into the wind’s wall, snap

another oblong of grandeur

(bite-sized, as befits

its current misnomer: the twelve

eroded to nine). As if

this balcony needs a wardrobe

of pantomime robes and fake beards

while the older names are still

nodding at us –– The Sow

and Piglets, Place Of Many Heads ––

up close and at bay

as the many-headed file

that shuffles past, clicks, turns

like a turnstile, except for

this couple in hoodies (though hers
is a kind of hooded coat
more like a blanket)

huddled together on the rim
of the flashes and grins,
wind-buffeted, slightly desperate

to pocket each other –– backed
into the guardrail,
having unpacked that portable

bedroom wall, the landscape
that matters. 

Well, that's the first thing I thought of when I read Katy's blog  today. I've been tinkering with the thing for years, ever since I went to Melbourne on a Vincent Buckley Poetry Fellowship in 2004. It never occurred to me that today might be numerically significant in any way. 12.12.12 = an excuse to post a poem and photo. But who needs excuses?

The other twelve that came to mind were the twelve kids I did a poetry workshop with earlier today, at the invitation of Tom Conaty, the principal. They were a delight, and the two hours passed like a dream.