Cockburn Sound
Madness of the full
moon drives
anglers onto footholds
in the rocks. Whispers
of cocky salmon
and snapper
have men hiding
their rigs and bait. Desperate
casts and whipping rods
reflect the yellow lamplight
of empty vessels
waiting their turn
at Coogee.
The dead water speaks
of change — fingers
of the old-timer
pleading down the line,
reading
the sea floor — newcomer’s
hands on hips
feeling hard-done-by
while his patient partner
gently wipes
the light rain
from her phone.
Vacuum
Another storm
that doesn’t hit,
sweeps over the eastern
hills. Feint shards
of lighting pass
the windows above
our mail sorting frames.
You share my longing
for the north,
for weather. Your brown calloused hands —
still holding on
to the next letter —
shape the gorges
of home, paint Kununurra’s
broad flats steaming
after evening torrents.
Interstitial
Left over space
undevelopable
between brasserie, cop-shop
and motorway.
Kids comb
piles of trash
for objects of interest.
Police lean on vans
sharing cigarettes
with left over people.
An old woman
knots her heavy brow
straightening
a print of Jesus hanging
from a tag
on her faded canvas tent.