Waiting on the saltpans,

watching from the high ground:

tide

          tide

                    tide

through the traps.
Sun burns and burns

the crystals bright,

I narrow my eyes

to the glistening light.

A scatter of sodium chloride and silt,

desiccant diamonds

on silica beds.

Catalyst and cleaner

on colonial rails

to the canneries,

the abattoirs,

and later,

the oil refinery.
Sun burns and burns.

The birds return:

white faced herons in flight

black swans – I call to you.

We lie,

lied,

lie and turn.

Then walk to the edge for forgiveness

in the shallows and sea grass.
Sun burns and burns

on the western shore.

This inlet is hotter by two degrees –  that’s what they tell me.
And there is the city like a cardboard cut out

linked by a bridge I crossed in my youth,

distant and grey (like I don’t even know you),

this was the entrance that changed everything.

This was the surface, now covered and carved:

the buffering edges of Skeleton Creek

the sentinel flame of the refinery
still burns

and burns.