Fishing Shacks

2 February 2001

A shocking mismatch of colours,
a love of galvo,
these bachelor beach pads
say “eternal boy”
in the boofiest way,
sometimes edged
with shotgun warnings —
the skull and cross bones
on the cubby door.

A total lack of tizz or frill
or any plants,
and a stack of stubbies
beside the gutting table.
The kitchen’s outside, a grill
propped over charcoal piles.

Homage to its own solitude,
the architecture of rough enough,
of cobble together, of Rafferty’s rules —
it says, “live, but don’t care too much
about yourself.”

You can’t complain —
a fire, some gar you’ve pulled
out of the bay,
the last sun
over turquoise fibro.

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