A great concrete arm reaches into the sea
It controls its temper
A swell surges at it and spray floats
It gives no ground
In its lee fishing boats sit low
They roll and tip, pastel sides dipping
Children swim to a pontoon –
a collie, too,
his coat a furrow of black and white
The big ships have gone;
only the plucky low-riders are left
On land, a red shed has given in to the wind,
its little windows salt-sprayed
Where the water meets land, men sit on a bench
They come down most days to drink the calm
When the easterly rises,
they opt for a black and tan
Hi, John, nice pastoral. Am wondering where this is set?I like the sense of a time stopped, of big numbered 4square calendars, one rural photo, twelve removable months.
Oamaru harbour for the most part, but there may be elements of others in there.
Thanks for your kind words, Dean.
I have been pretty slack at writing and commenting lately, but promise better in the future.