by Vanessa Proctor
In a distant past of ‘there she blows’
Old Tom, the orca, king of Twofold Bay
led his pod, Hooky, Humpy and Stranger,
herded baleen whales into the bay.
Cruising to the whaling station,
Tom would flop-tail to alert the whalers
spumes of water arcing skyward,
catching sunlight and the lookout’s eye.
Longboats surged forward,
adrenalin-powered,
men wielding harpoons
to hold the whale fast,
blood clouding the water.
Tom would tug the whale to shore,
his teeth scored deep by the rope,
impatient for the delicate parts
in the Law of the Tongue,
the rest boiled down to oil,
stench saturating the town.
Whales still migrate along this coast,
humpbacks and southern rights,
but the orcas stay far out to sea.
In the museum Old Tom’s bones
a testament to memory.