Waiting on the southbound platform

    in still humid air, for the long journey home,

half-listening to buskers, bands blasting out

          from a nearby pub, you keep a close eye

on checked-in luggage, wheeled out

in a trolley, now unattended

                           the new surfboard there

for the taking. The boys are anxious,

                     can’t board until it’s loaded.
We’ve eaten fish and hand-cut chips,

          revisiting that last surf on Main Beach,

the swell and the riding, big rollers coming in

swamping, in the Buddhist way,

        the sand fortress built this afternoon.

A late windsurfer on the bay moves swiftly

across our line of sight, the lighthouse

flashing in the distance, moon rising

                     and a slow sea-mist coming in.
Through fogged glass of the window-pane

     the green hinterland rises and falls, drifting

down valleys into the timbered forest.

Soon we’ll sleep, the boys stretched out

           on the floor, beyond the racket of train

to arrive in cold dawn. They’ll return sometimes,

just passing through, nothing changed,

          the street-front palm trees still in place

like pieces from an ongoing jigsaw puzzle

                 the green frog in the letter-box

shiny, ceramic, you’d think

                        someone left it as a gift.