Shoot it if it rhymes

Quay Notes

Some salt. A little water-lily smell.
A rust-drop from a forgotten anchor.
A coir strand, unspun from a rope, on a pier.
A horn that cuts through the steel-packed fog.
Grey mud that cascades
from a dredger's ballast.

Harbour.

Around the Chinese fishing nets,
listless men gather with little talk and less fish.
Hyacinth, cradling air-pockets to hearts,
speckle green into the grey waters.
A pink water-bottle floats,
trailing old school-tales. A bubble bursts.

A white boat, drunk with passenger-weight,
weaves down the bay.
The jetty stirs awake.
Baskets of fowl, fish, and bananas go aloft, suddenly.
Two gulls rake the sky with an off-key duet.
A kingfisher cuts a cameo.
From an old memory, a baby cries.

A bawdy song cuts in from the toddy shop.
Over a dish of pickled prawn,
a lifetime is shared.
Love and lust mingle in the toss
of a jasmine-scented plait.
The dredger honks.

Inside my shirt, an old sea-breeze blooms.