Sanctuary PoemsUnderdeep Words written to celebrate the Ricketts Point Marine Sanctuary by Barrie Sheppard Here,
at Rickett’s Point, in air, wind, sea-blue and sky;
by banksia, boobialla, saltbush grey and sea-berry;
here, on Port Phillip’s edge
where reef connects land with the under-deep,
Nature’s delicate chain, long broken, is now sanctuaried,
is now freed to renovate.
Now can crested weedfish, spiney scorpion, scaly fin, and zebra fish
shoal prolific through sea-valley by underwater ridge,
and the sculptured goby and humble flathead, unmolested,
can rest on the mud of the micro-ooze below;
and living, breathing breeding coral, the architects of the nether reef
can build their filigree of calcium, soft green, blue, cream and lime;
and shellfish, cockles, and winged oysters
freezing the flight of seabirds above,
can again cluster on tessellated rock-face and crevice;
where green shrimp, snapping prawn,
and crabs crusted and tooth-clawed, can scuttle, and crouch,
where ray and skate can move through sea grass abundant
in a grace-gliding motion mirroring wave and tidal sweep above;
and purple-black sea cucumber and urchin,
saffron sponge, and starfish deep blue, orange, and biscuit-coloured,
can embroider pool and ironstone rock-face, wave-washed.
Where the sea’s edge, here, Nature’s garden of plenty, ‘rich and strange’
is now protected, now freed to regenerate, and free to flourish! Sacred Place Words by Barrie Sheppard, sung to the tune of a Hungarian folktune, in three part harmony From Dreamtime to the Boonurong
from rockface, pool, sea and air,
fruits of the sea this shoreline gave,
then harvested in harmony. But pressure from too many hands
threatened Nature’s bounty here
rockfish, shell and seabird gone
taken in thoughtless ignorance. Now sanctuaried by law and decree
the riches of this sacred place
can relive and regenerate
to flourish in rich diversity Arts Trail Words by Barrie Sheppard, Ricketts Point Summer 2003 All that’s needed is a frame
to set this summer light in a landscape
that brings back Tom Roberts’, or Streeton’s, Mentone -
one to enclose the sweep of sand around
to the rock platform white-dotted with seabirds,
and the light-ruffled sea beneath that sky,
about the wash of blue air cloud-laced reaching down
to the dim line of the bay’s edge away to the south -
one to take in the fore-dune there to the left,
flecked grey with saltbush and spinifex;
and that woman in the white sarong
by the water’s edge, with her children nearby,
mere spots of live colour at play. Those moving birds, though, disturb the scene: the silver gulls, each single
yet one in contrapuntal flight
slipping across-frame low to the water; and those three pelicans that, like jumbo jets, bank,
only to abandon grace for an awkward landing; but the pied cormorant there, on the rock down-frame,
restores some grace, as if elegance herself
had chosen to reside in the curve of its elongating body
extending itself skywards. Watching Gannets Feeding Words by Barrie Sheppard, Ricketts Point August 2003 They came above an August sea,
gray and choppy;
drawn by something they must know
that we don't - perhaps it's pilchards -
for they come, as expected,
along the coast from the south:
all grace and light on slender wings. You pick one out,
Noting the head and beak lowered
Like Concord in landing mode,
and then watch for the tilt, and sudden bank
into the dive with wings fixed wide that,
an instant above the waves, fold into an arrow shot
to disappear under a puff of spume. You wait, counting: one- two- maybe three-
'til tell-tale white re-appears on the roiling sea;
and then for the flutter, a few seconds later
that lifts her from the sea's drag to rise away
and bank again. Should I say 'her'? - somehow it seems right.
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