Day-drinker ponders; rises; leaves the poem.
The cranes cry to the cov’ring cloud.
Do you hear?
People-watching; people, watching me.
Over the water, w’thin the waves of crashing flame, I sit ‘n write.
With pub fire calling, its warmth tempting all in, Molly, through the rain she yet led.
In screeching seagull song sounds out senescent afternoon.
The road runs riv’ring currents, coursing crashless swirls of traffic.
King Will’yum walks, in wettened-sand.
A finely crafted lot of letters nailed into its door, the room, so full in retrospect, slept – spacious; silent.
The walls of mud-made brick that bind and shape the space they share start to compress – contracting in upon themselves; sharp shuddering.
Is masked th’moon’s cratered plight beyond the wisp-white atmosphere.
The grain is mismatched ‘cross the breaks.
Outside, upon the paved ‘n railing-ringed walk – sheltered – way, where Sunday patrons sit, the sun, through th’river’s auld reflection sings on th’wooden slats below the Cascade Steps.