Cruising and Checking
Walking early at Portarlington
you may check the wharf as I do,
peeking in the anglersı empty buckets.
One-man work-boats may catch your eye,
in the full gold of first sunlight,
cruising in - with their catch? -
not that I can see, but, looking beyond,
I realize these are mussel farmers
back from checking future harvests.
As for the lone yacht moored near the beach,
movement at its stern shapes to an inflatable,
putt-putting towards us as boat, man and dog.
Us in this case is me and my dog. In the shallows
the yachtsman clambers out carrying his dog.
Good mornings all round, human and canine.
Yachtiesı dogs, first thing, we see,
do need land for a good relieving squat
this time, between us and the No Dogs sign.
Yachtie and I enjoy a long slow yarn
about the water, weather, climate, skies.
Melbourne may be overcast for days,
while out on the Bay itıs glorious and mild.
Better than racing is just cruising: at
Williamstown, say, you step from car to yacht,
consulting the breeze on where to head,
stepping ashore wherever you please.
They putt-putt away. The beach is ours again;
their image remains, our catch of the day.
[snapped in prose '99, pub in glossy local mag, Coast&Country, then with
artwork by colleague and friend Iain Topliss. His image we hope will be on
the cover of my imminent verse collection, so I've now rejigged old prose
into new verse]
Max Richards
Melbourne, 12 October 2005
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