Harbour Town
In this season I can only aspire to make trouble.
Wearing all my clearance clothes
I loiter at this bum-hole of winter
await any ending.
Constantly constant this
isn’t peace or retreat, just almost.
Wind rifles up the coast
an indigenous flag falters
beside an invader’s tomb of frigid marble.
The decommissioned sun joins the other homeless drifters.
Then September is ablaze.
Down on the docks trouble is brewing tea.
The union refuses to concede
while I sail by in my excuse thimble
& count money.
This drags on as all things do
the season rots the fingers…
they’d held on through nasty months,
now to compost beside
eucalypt leaves & nest-fallen chicks.
City beaches abrade our pert decisions.
Drinking all the salt we craze about in lethargic elegance
until the drum solo
when DNA wakes the lovers up to tweak & rustle.
Silver eyes watch, reflect on water.
- © Les Wicks 2020
Les Wicks is a Sydney poet.
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