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.