Two blue and yellow Ferryboat
which take people to look at Whales
are coming in quickly; a third soon
as their tours conclude, coinciding
with a sea change as the wind gets up.
Where I sit, with the Work-safe
Course pen, late afternoon, before cricket
practise, I can see to the nearest city.
I can’t actually see the city, two hundred
shoreline kilometres, I know where
this city is situated. And when I am there
drying ourselves at a surf beach, we look back
toward where I am now and say: That’s where
we live, see: the paper-weight mountains
on the far, flat page to the horizon.
Closer in, a dinghy bobs and swivels,
an older man, wearing the old style
orange square life vest, has the oars out
dripping watery curds; apparently
unconcerned by the changing weather.
Earlier the ocean was the blue tone
and tint Travel Posters print.
Dolphin scumaged and flipped
being photographed and swum with
an easy one hundred swimmable strokes
away. Now it is pea-grey, mud-spearmint.
Sky a gauzy white darkening around the edges
like where a snow-globe is glued onto the base.
One of the vessels has stopped
and an aeroplane circles too.
A whale must be in close, shepherding her pup.
The man in the small white boat
hasn’t moved. I don’t make out a fishing rod.
Just sitting afloat the reward.