A different kind of online

She dreams of upgrading to a bigger boat,
a higher-horsepower outboard.
Files the dream away as she hits the open ocean,
speeds up enough to plane.

Sea-spray short-cuts her to the present,
scanning the ocean in real time
for good places to pause and fish.

The old-fashioned Wi-Fi of winds and tides,
the template of sand-banks and
the stored data of experience logs in.

She throws the anchor out,
casts in a line,
starts spinning the reel when it’s made good depth.

Downloads gigabytes of patience.
Rests her finger on the line to monitor the tension,
any hint of a bite.

Clouds congregate,
fish disperse.

Marine-scanning monitors are redundant
when she can screen-shot regularly
with pelagic eyes accustomed to buffering and glare.

She motors around,
exploring different domains.

Catches a Bluetooth tuskfish,
a couple of Banded morwong.

Setting off back home
as the sun compresses itself
against the singed horizon,

it’s the sea eagle’s video-call that
causes her to freeze,
ease back on the throttle

and research, in the lilting soar
of its silver-white wings,
this binary of tranquillity
and flash-dive luminance.

**

Still has the touch
for Anne Joan Austin, Great-grandmother

Been entertaining next door neighbour’s flies,
she grins at me across the table set
with lamingtons, shop-bought – against her pride.
They’ll have to do, can’t bake much now, my pet.
Remember when I used to let you wrap
lettuce leaves with sugar – my little treat –
and you’d do anything to avoid your daily nap
so we’d go for walks all up and down the street.

Baby frets –……………despite an arthritic spine
she maneuvers down next to him on the floor.
It’s been a long time since I had all mine,
I don’t know how to soothe them anymore.
Yet her wrinkled touch slows his restless cries
or did he catch the incandescence in her eyes?

**

then I catch myself

gum trees tall dark silhouettes against the dusk-dreaming sky
ocean soft symphony scent of wood-smoke shacks
flat, numbered avenues wending behind rock-crested coast

a few moments of phone-free anxiety – what if I get lost don’t have
Google Maps
what if it gets dark don’t have my phone torch
what if I need to call someone

then I catch myself
relax
enjoy the beauty of walking at dusk
birdcalls
the novelty of pre-dinner exercise

recall strolls round the block with mum in my hometown holding
hands

catch glimpses of other people’s early evening routines their couches
TV shows
before curtains slide against steadily advancing night

relish this escape
striding freely through crisp air

**

Fault lines

we spit molten opinions at each other
between morning tea and lunch
wonder how the day erupted

lava flows
between lunch and dinner
sulking…………..each with our own screens

avoiding…….in our rooms
thick breaths flow
anger solidifies

after the kitchen’s clean and the kids are dreaming
we exchange bills
you pay Telstra, ……..I’ll pay Aurora

in the fertile volcanic soil
we sew tentative seeds of repair
with BPAY numbers

** 

Drapery

The sixth curtain sprawls on a chair.
I can’t iron any more.
The gap can stay.
I don’t mind seeing the small fairy lights of town.

Finally, after a day’s acting at work,
the dinner table, the kitchen bench,
both of us talking to the kids
but not each other,

I keel into bed,
grip the doona and grieve
for the crinkled curtain,
the gap

……..all that was whole between us.

**

The space inside my fists

after an infinite day
after an hour cooking
…….fetching
…….serving
(non)reacting to food-rejections
high-pitched operatic demands from the three-year-old
…….for pink cup not Sesame Street one
…….spoon not fork

after I sit down, take two mouthfuls…….
…….after my two-year old spits half-masticated tortellini on floor
…….upends bowl of stir-fry over tray

I launch up, snavel it back into bowl
…….explode – When will I ever get to eat my friggin’ dinner in peace!
stomp into kitchen, grab rag, wipe floor, flick into sink
…….collapse into chair,
…….eat in a dumping wave of agitation

today I see that even half-an-hour away
…….washes back tenderness
a long-anticipated walk on a beach in the sun’s envelope
…….restores patience

without meaning to, I collect shells for them,
conical sand-snails, king scallops, solid air-breathers, venus clams,
step-by-sand-softened-step I think of the craft we could do with them,
…….hope they cherish their beauty
…….when I open my fists and offer them

---

Susan Austin is a poet, eco-socialist activist and mental health occupational therapist living in Nipaluna, Hobart. Her poetry collections Undertow and Incandescence and verse novel Dancing with Empty Prams were published by Walleah Press. Dancing with Empty Prams was longlisted in the 2025 Tasmanian Literary Awards. Susan won the FAW Tasmania Poetry Prize in 2023 and 2021 and was Commended in the national Woorilla Poetry Prize. She has performed at many writers’ festivals, was awarded an Australia Council for the Arts Career Development Grant and been widely published in newspapers and journals, including the Australian Poetry Anthology. She blogs at www.susanaustinpoetry.com.au

Susan Austin latest collection, Incandescence, is available from https://walleahpress. com.au/ Susan-Austin-Incandescence.html