Waiting at Ardminish
A lowtide slackwater rhythm soothes rocks,
sways kelp through tourmaline clears;
gulls overhead hardly squall, to eavesdrop
birdnoises, pinkpurpled in orchids, when our air
feels the mainland’s first pulse – a boom
in the somewhere grows bigger with chugs ,
fills out in red, black and white, then
horns into mind, churns oceans opaque.
The ramp clangs hard on the slip,
lets the van’s first drivebang roll onto deck;
outspills the postie, three sacks for the ferryman,
delivered in the sun of her kiss.
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