The river is brown-hued, wide.
In its shallows small black fish appear,
hyphens of life,
pleasing barefoot children.
The river is pelican-ushered to the sea.
The beach curves south to a crop of hills
where a white lighthouse stands,
its spiralling stairs now climbed
by camera-burdened tourists.
In the sky, there’s a small plane, silver-bellied,
gone when you turned
to a Ruth Rendell paperback.
This coastline asks you to name yourself,
fisherman, beachcomber, surfer, retiree,
to examine whether you’re more than that.
eases from rock to sky,
becomes a speck and miracle
to a small boy, a sandcastle lord,
standing sandy-kneed, squinting.
The wind, the waves, play their games of give and take,
the horizon searches its deep pockets
for the makings of tomorrow’s weather.
