The harbour morning's soft with clouds. The cold,
alike long-legged flies, is striding over
the surface of the world. I can't imagine
anything less than this, this dream in time
and echoing a certain poem. There's none
that muses on the passage of the fly
that is the cold, no dreaming eye, none seeing,
a poet making words memorable.
The ship is stalled so near to land. The people
are restless, test their balance, and they moan
into the morning light. Nobody stays
their fear with words or warning hands. The sickness
is stirring on the ship. They do not stir,
but talk in silenced tones; McMillan comes.
- Phillip Ellis 2012