Saturday, May 28, 2016


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.

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