WINTER IS COMING

I stumble

On crumbling pieces of driftwood -

One shaped like a human forearm,

Others the length of lanky legs,

And some fanned like hands

Or smashed like broken ribs.

If I can find a heart

I might be able to assemble

A man without a brain,

Who could frolic in the sand

Before the arrival of the fine rain

Already drenching

The tangled branches of banksias

And the purple petals

Of morning glory

On the wooded hills.

Choppy surges lick the sky

Between me

And an almost invisible

Distant headland

With an old lighthouse

Standing solid,

Like a dry fountain

In a forsaken past.

The beach is cold,

A southerly blows

And delivers icy slivers.

There is such a severe chill factor

That it makes me shiver

And it threatens,

By way of freezing gusts,

To shrivel my beard,

A two-day stubble of grey and greyer.

Fizzing crests of waves

Turn back on themselves

Before crashing

On invisible seaweed shelves,

Rough rocky ledges,

And concealed sandbars,

The white spray creating

A salty mist over the bending sea.

Soon it will blend

With a bitter shower

And I will wish

For the sizzle of a fire

As the drizzle

Rips through my threadbare fleece coat

And tears at my ageing torso.