Ode to Sth Beach

By | 1 July 1997

The remains of the pier
stick in your miserly west coast wash.
The factory burns in corrugations
amidst the rabbity scrub, its cyclone
fencing rusts on the noxious perimeter.
I have strayed from the primary
colours of your playground,
from the preened lawns & pines.
I am walking the dog beach, old Manners
arse up/snout down on the trail
of some vermin or sea-creature long spent.
I am giddy with aroma, with brine,
with the stench of pickled things tossed
from the ocean’s passing window.
I am watching the low profile of Rottnest,
falling again for dusk over water,
the port’s orange bloom
mirrored at Rockingham.
I am mourning the Indian Ocean’s
tatty border, my lines snagging on the hem.
I am clinging to my sense of you
& your fishermen who
hang in there.

This entry was posted in 01: UNTHEMED and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.