Danny James

Tag: Coogee

390

For a little over a month now Sydney has been swept by an habitual storm fall every Sunday, preferring its visits late in the afternoon. It’s as though the skies have been pent-up all week and delight, as we all do to finally let go. It is always the same; a short stay, a passing temper, worse in appearance than in conduct with a rather benign, even pleasant refreshing Summer afternoon quality. From the heights of my apartment have I full view of oceans from Bondi to Coogee and beyond and the contrasting sections of sky have been quite an inspiration for pause. One half still azure and awash with subtle sunlight, the other overshadowed by a crawl of dark and bulbous smoke that with each meeting so far has prevailed the initial contact but tires quick and disperses having spent itself. It might have made a fine occasion for reading had I energy to surrender at the opportunity. Still there was much in the sky to rest my attention on; the rain fell harder and straighter than previous expulsions, every drop seemingly in parallel direction and equal haste. Then it was gone and all things settled as though rain had not fallen and no agitation had occurred at all.

From Bondi, over Clovelly

From Bondi, over Clovelly

315: Distance

Stamina, heart? This is reasoning past reasonable gravity. In this realm my strength is none. My Sun, my saviour, my giving grace; turning away from thee, is but looking ahead for thee.

Coogee, 2011

Coogee, 2011

281

O daybreak, that I am ever with fresh gladness seen, and not honoured to evenings conviction, that today I do not mean.

Coogee, 2012

Coogee, 2012

5

In my declining years when no more, or merely will my formerly firm limbs take me there I should choose to wander, but failing to comply with the pace of my still fresh fancy’s wonderings, I will renovated recall that divine intersection of my youth, when by some celestial summons I turned over many a morning to the Eastern Beaches Coastal Walk between Bondi and Coogee. The oneness and natural superfluity enjoyed upon my trails, I can not frame. The soul of my art is in arresting the state of man, whose distresses and gladnesses I can tune my instruments to, and thence play to the traveller an accustomed song. For my part, I strain to say the birds, the rock, pools and seas upon which my faculties most rest, are this or that, but of man, verses beset. Often I would hasten myself to a bench where lovers convene and poets paint, to reclaim and map my thoughts before they are among the Constellations of my mind, lost always. One such rescued consideration is this:

He is the best of man who, throughout the seasons of his life, gives to the pursuit of physical prayer his rising hour; he knows the value of man, and up with him after, a gapers borders may go.