It’s the tail end of 1873, November, and a clergyman is rugged up against a sluggish dusk. Along a Newfoundland coastline, Reverend Moses Harvey makes his way…

A single moment of the day remains: paused / at the door, we’re worn as the frayed brick path / trailing the grass, rippled through with tree / roots, moss-weighed and sinking.

I remember / the woman next to me / in the aisle seat, she’s / coming home and she’s / saying as we land that it's / not at all like the map in / my hand would have me believe.

It's impossible to / know what you hear out / there, if the cockatoos / carry across the water to / you: paper lanterns rushing the leafless, rising branches of the red gums.

Thirty minutes north-west of Adelaide is a stretch of South Australian coastline synchronously, gloriously, luminous and bleak. In the language of the Kaurna people…

My father calls me late one night. He’s / building a boat, gathering sticks of balsa / wood and grainy plans printed off the internet / Expecting rain? I ask.

I wait out the days after in / the bathtub, topping it up / with my toes as it cools. It’s / April and sharp-beaked / daffodils keep watch through / the glass.

In the ninth month the army rolls into town / they’ve come to take our boys from their mothers. / It turns out we’re an easy mark – / the postcodes like ours.