Only the yacht gives a backward glanceDragged 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 songThe 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)
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