ODE TO PANCREEK CREEK

Only the yacht gives a backward glance

Dragged from the toss and tumble of play

Still aching for the thrust of sail or screw

Still thirsting for the rain of foam of spray

Why seek sanctuary from such sport?

Mangroves and palms fringe a welcoming beach

Wattles and gums press hard to the sand

Far hills tipped mauve as the sun dips low

Swift darkness falls to blanket the land

How velvety can silence be?

Comptroller of all is the moon with her tides

Industry permitted on banks newly made

Passage allowed through channels wrought deep

Fish swimming hard just to stay in our shade

How orderly these rhythms?

Woodlands hum with colour and song

The grey-stone  headland juts proud to be seen

The old iron lighthouse stands white and erect

Red rust held at bay by government green

Who sustains the stoic lighthouse?

Silence in the glade allows the graves to speak

Of lives lost too soon or endured in pain

Grey tombstones are weathered but flowers are fresh

A century passed but the emotions remain

Are older ghosts grieving here too?

The Creek is a haven from trade winds and waves

Playground for cruisers and tinnies and tents

Bountiful waters and feasts for the eyes

Wealth for the dreaming not measured in cents

Stolen from those our invasion displaced.

S Milligan

June 2011

Inspired by J Keats’ Ode to Autumn

(Sorry Mr Keats)

ON FEET

I really like the look of my feet at the moment. 

When I lived in Surry Hills, I rarely saw the things.  They were usually encased in socks or pantyhose and then shoved into sturdy walking boots, or business pumps or joggers or party shoes.  I’m not saying I didn’t care about them, mind you. They were coddled with high quality wool or cotton socks, then spoiled with leather-only uppers and linings in shoes - none of that plastic. They were, in addition, supplied with orthotics to defend them against the unyielding concrete pavements of Surry Hills. 

But the poor things certainly never saw the sun.  To be honest, I can’t really remember what they looked like then.  I paid them no honest attention at all. I know they were long, straight and narrow with high arches: they always have been and still are. I seem to remember them as white, with pinkish bobbles on the toes and heels where shoes touched, and occasionally they got blisters.

Now, I notice them. I enjoy catching sight of them twinkling along the deck or kicking the sand or splashing in the water or even resting in the saloon. They are usually bare, free of cotton or wool. They are tanned.  The soles are not really tough, as I wear thongs or crocs when I am moving around the boat or on rocks or coral, but they do have a sturdy functional sole.  They look sinewy and healthy.



Dean working on production of Happy Feet at Great Keppel island



I don’t think I am developing an auto-erotic foot fetish late in life.  I think I am just pleased that my feet seem to be so happy.