This poem is about flying into the city of Cairns in the far north of Queensland, and its lush and dangerous tropicality. This is an exotic part of Australia I know well. Specifically, it recalls my experiences of the wet season, when the rain falls in torrents, crocodiles inhabit the suburbs, and the humidity is like a sauna.

 

Wet

 

Tall drips of confusion

bombard flying fox invaders

on their way to mudcreek and snapjaw,

through sharp edge, frond-top and greenslab;

 

In valleys between fastnesses

stand the lanky, lank, louvered,

slept-out, leant-to villas

of the high and airy, virtue verandah'd.

 

Neither rich nor fast, ripe nor fortunate,

time is maturing in the rain

behind weatherboard and slat,

under whirling wagonwheels and sweat.

 

Among the cross-struts the Toyota

mildews like a dead beetle

for want of movement; silently still

as the road steams salutes to the momentary sun …

 

… until stilettos again slash the air

with silver thunder on slanting iron,

and half-light colours wake

to strobe retinae behind uninterested eyes;

 

As cautious pilots (with a hint of jangle)

unpack slicked wings

to rock and bounce down thick and violent ether

and expire, breathless, on the pounded land.

 

Chris Hubbard . Perth . 1994