We skirt the harbour
On an incoming tide
Nosing our boats
past submerged stones
that masquerade as seals
in the predawn light
We drift –
Past samphire flats
oyster shell middens
and broken bottles
discarded rope and tackle
submerged shopping trolleys,
car tyres, beach wrack and shingle.
We drift –
past paperbark thickets
rushes and sedges
over sea grass nurseries
reading lines upon the water
rumours in the water,
whispers in the water
We drift –
I’m paddling with my daughter
mapping the ospreys of the harbour
of the King and Kalgan rivers,
charting the slow dispersal
of previous year’s nestlings.
My youngest daughter
asks questions.
I answer her as best I can -
she tests new waters
fathoms new depths
returns to the safety of the shallows:
“Where else do Ospreys live?”
And I tell her:
On every continent except Antarctica,
Migrating thousands of kilometres
Across open ocean
Sky dancing in search of a mate.
Mediaval heralds saw them as harbingers of hope,
Everywhere, from Hokkaido to the Carribean
Alaska to this point right here
They become the stuff of legend
In Scotland, each year, at Boat of Garten,
twitchers genuflect before a telescope
Eagerly awaiting the birds return.
And I tell her about a female named Lady,
Who returned there 24 years in a row
Overwintering in Africa,
About the birds here
That raise their eggs
with the help of last years brood
We round a bend in the river.
There, on a dead tree by the water
The first osprey of the morning -
the sunrise casts a rose-gold glow
on the white feathers of its breast
it watches us, crest feathers awry -
once we have glided past
it shrugs itself off its branch
wheels away and soon is out of sight.
Mist rises off the water, rises off cormarants
who’ve hung themselves out to dry
like yesterday’s washing.
The second bird of the day
Drops full bodied into the water
Just in front of us
Rises heavily with a fish
Clutched in talons that look
Like gauntlets two sizes two large -
Huge – and hooked –
Not made for letting go;
A large fish will drown a young bird
Caught by hubris
or the simple misjudgement
of a mullet or mulloway
But this is a bream.
The bird juggles it expertly in flight
So that the fish is facing forwards
Then perches on a nearby branch.
A rain of silver scales falls into the river
In the stillness we hear the tearing of flesh
Then a piping – another bird arrives
Jostling and cajoling
Demanding to be fed
Last year’s nestling
Clamouring to a parent
or an older sibling
My daughter
Is strangely silent.
We paddle on
Mid morning: Red tailed black cockatoos
rain marri nuts down on us
Like benedictions.
From stag-headed sentinel trees
they fly with slow funereal wingbeats
in geriatric assemblies.
Still they clatter and clamour
raucously enough –
all bolt-cutter beaks and high vermillion
a ragtag collection
of aging burlesques, sooty chimney sweeps
and carnival clowns
And then,
Near honeymoon island: two ospreys,
a ghormengast of sticks -
rough basketry the size of an armchair
woven into the bleached skeleton
of a wilding pine
Other nests follow across the course of the day –
High in the arms of a jarrah tree
Or a karri
Or on crumbling offshore rock stacks
Added to over generations
Lined with moss, dry grass and fishing line -
Evening: Where the brine of the harbour
mingles with the tannins
of the river, the tide turns.
We let the current carry us home
On the phone that night
She tells her brother and sister
About all that she has seen
Outside, the keening of the wind,
And the sound of the river, running to the sea.
On an incoming tide
Nosing our boats
past submerged stones
that masquerade as seals
in the predawn light
We drift –
Past samphire flats
oyster shell middens
and broken bottles
discarded rope and tackle
submerged shopping trolleys,
car tyres, beach wrack and shingle.
We drift –
past paperbark thickets
rushes and sedges
over sea grass nurseries
reading lines upon the water
rumours in the water,
whispers in the water
We drift –
I’m paddling with my daughter
mapping the ospreys of the harbour
of the King and Kalgan rivers,
charting the slow dispersal
of previous year’s nestlings.
My youngest daughter
asks questions.
I answer her as best I can -
she tests new waters
fathoms new depths
returns to the safety of the shallows:
“Where else do Ospreys live?”
And I tell her:
On every continent except Antarctica,
Migrating thousands of kilometres
Across open ocean
Sky dancing in search of a mate.
Mediaval heralds saw them as harbingers of hope,
Everywhere, from Hokkaido to the Carribean
Alaska to this point right here
They become the stuff of legend
In Scotland, each year, at Boat of Garten,
twitchers genuflect before a telescope
Eagerly awaiting the birds return.
And I tell her about a female named Lady,
Who returned there 24 years in a row
Overwintering in Africa,
About the birds here
That raise their eggs
with the help of last years brood
We round a bend in the river.
There, on a dead tree by the water
The first osprey of the morning -
the sunrise casts a rose-gold glow
on the white feathers of its breast
it watches us, crest feathers awry -
once we have glided past
it shrugs itself off its branch
wheels away and soon is out of sight.
Mist rises off the water, rises off cormarants
who’ve hung themselves out to dry
like yesterday’s washing.
The second bird of the day
Drops full bodied into the water
Just in front of us
Rises heavily with a fish
Clutched in talons that look
Like gauntlets two sizes two large -
Huge – and hooked –
Not made for letting go;
A large fish will drown a young bird
Caught by hubris
or the simple misjudgement
of a mullet or mulloway
But this is a bream.
The bird juggles it expertly in flight
So that the fish is facing forwards
Then perches on a nearby branch.
A rain of silver scales falls into the river
In the stillness we hear the tearing of flesh
Then a piping – another bird arrives
Jostling and cajoling
Demanding to be fed
Last year’s nestling
Clamouring to a parent
or an older sibling
My daughter
Is strangely silent.
We paddle on
Mid morning: Red tailed black cockatoos
rain marri nuts down on us
Like benedictions.
From stag-headed sentinel trees
they fly with slow funereal wingbeats
in geriatric assemblies.
Still they clatter and clamour
raucously enough –
all bolt-cutter beaks and high vermillion
a ragtag collection
of aging burlesques, sooty chimney sweeps
and carnival clowns
And then,
Near honeymoon island: two ospreys,
a ghormengast of sticks -
rough basketry the size of an armchair
woven into the bleached skeleton
of a wilding pine
Other nests follow across the course of the day –
High in the arms of a jarrah tree
Or a karri
Or on crumbling offshore rock stacks
Added to over generations
Lined with moss, dry grass and fishing line -
Evening: Where the brine of the harbour
mingles with the tannins
of the river, the tide turns.
We let the current carry us home
On the phone that night
She tells her brother and sister
About all that she has seen
Outside, the keening of the wind,
And the sound of the river, running to the sea.
Written & Spoken by Yann Toussaint
Sound Design and Music by Marianthe Loucataris
Sound Design and Music by Marianthe Loucataris