(1)
a flotilla of flat-bottomed sabres
red triangled teeth atop the white of a single sail
forty strong and tacking tightly bunched
with just one straggler to the rear
and one that is running hard to port and pointing
at my piece of floury yellow sand
marked out as personal territory by towel and book
and the clear blue overlay of cloudless sky
(2)
I have waited these three slow-passing months
of damp and lukewarm pseudo-summer
for such a day of unambiguous stinging heat
the salt water is already autumn sharp
a rapid-cooling contrast to the dry temerature
rising from carpark bare beach above water level
but the slap of small-wave motion -
enough to force the awkwardness of walking on tip-toes
with every rise in depth towards the nethers -
is worth enduring for the clean freshness
of first submergence and aquatic acclimatisation
(3)
the wind is on the rise the water less inviting
sabre teeth are bare poles and singing metal lines
pulled up before the training clubrooms and above high tide
various parties are packing up and going home
despite forty five degrees of sun remaining before curtain fall
on this Patterson River of powder-sand gulls
and boats returning to the river mouth channel in search of berthing
trailing a bright and silver shiver on the water
to reflect the last remnants of a Sunday on the bay
~
Frank
The Tales of Faust poetry page can be found at:
http://www.hotkey.net.au/~flp/F_index.htm
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