Here

'Would you like a holiday?' someone asked. I said, 'My life is a holiday.'

My retreat is on top of a small hill. I am
on the high side of the slope, with steps up
to my front door. I can look out from there
across to deep blue mountains,

over the wide roofs of my neighbours,

and to a stretch of changeable sky.

Even when stormy, it's thrilling.

If I step out on to the quiet street

I see the greatest mountain, which Captain Cook

called Mt Warning because he saw its peak

first of all when his ships approached this coast –
this, in many ways, unsuspected coast,
still keeping ancient secrets

that only some are allowed to know.

Nearby are creeks, rainforests, wetlands, and 

winding rivers. Every time I drive by the Tweed 

when the sun is shining expansively as if forever, 

I say to myself again, 'Why would anyone ever want 

to live anywhere else?' And when I pass

the little tidal creek-mouth at Hastings Point,

I rejoice to see, in three seasons, bright children play.

I grew up far south, in a small town on a river,

a hilly town surrounded by deep blue mountains

and not too far from a variable coast

that still makes my heart lift in silent song

to see again, or simply remember. But oh, the winters

were cruel cold. Decades later, I find a home

that echoes my birthplace and adds warmth.

This small town has been badly flooded of late.

Some people drowned, many lost all they had.

(Nowhere is perfect.) I on my hill was safe,

but I ache for some of my friends. Still I bless,

as we all do, the warm community spirit: the many

who instantly, freely volunteered help for need. 

In good times and bad, this is a place of friends.

Mt Warning, aka Wollumbin

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' the prompt for Day 8 of April Poetry Month is Hope and the Places That Heal You, in which we are invited to write about landscapes we love, which replenish us.