Troubled clouds amass an angry smile,
the night sky darkens in disgust.
The sea responds with measured barks,
the lighthouse beacon calling for the dawn.
In the distance, a tanker spills a black carpet.
church bells toll…
Leaving city life at the edge of the highway, replacing
bitumen heat with the salt-perfume of sea’s breath.
Only a scatter of stores to tempt the ladies who
are more at home on Noosa streets, with their
gold mesh and white linen. Here, some things
never change: the caravan park that waits patiently
for its regular families to set up camp, those who
understand that the run of bait fish straining
against the current, are a fluorescent reminder
to slow down and that the glittering basalt walls
that fringe the coastline, are not simply seats
for determined fishermen, but platforms that bond
fathers with sons on equal footing. It is in
these moments you realise, their catch is
greater than any fish they are likely to land.
Pressed up against the glare of
a bitter winter’s day, early morning dew
drips with the rising sun, that
casts your shadow on the ground.
As the droplets hit my face I
sense the flood returning, like
an over loved rag-doll I acquiesce to
its current, floating face down
knowing, this time there will be no survivors.
It’s official I have lost my bloginity!! This blog a record of many firsts – the unleashing of some closeted passions – photography and poetry. So to start things off here is a poem inspired by an abandoned boat I photographed at Noosa.
Mangroves curtain your grave;
bitten by rust and licked raw by the sea’s salty tongue
we find you abandoned.
No sign of your captain’s footprints in the mudflats,
the crab’s gallery of sandy spheres warn us
we are trampling sacred ground.
Your travels written in the peel of paint
that floats to the river’s mouth;
torn pages of a log book
only the sea will remember.