by Jan Napier
Offshore
there’s a chop, gusting Southerly knocks tops off
waves, shadows above water striping it indigo,
navy, white finger of the lighthouse an admonition.
Beachside
anglers wince at wind driven sand stinging
like sunburn, cast lines a rip pulls tight as violin strings,
rods twitching, arrhythmic against tidal surge.
Harbour
muscularity of tugs nudging container ships to berths,
half sunk wine sacs sway by hulls of freighters flying
Liberian flags, oily rainbows around bilges.
Bay
brief fin of a dolphin, its wet sheen smooth as duco
on the cruiser murmuring through flotillas of brown jellies,
cormorants sunning wings ignore slosh of backwash.
Boat Ramp
milk spot moon dots the i of a channel marker,
a fisher winches skiff to trailer across sand glistening
with tide slick, a yacht slips down the inlet, distance.
Inlet
shrinking it to mystery, and in that boatless moment
estuary lulls to stillness, last light flushing pink
the underwings of low flying pelicans.