37 gulls halo
the Opera House.
The ferry engine thuds in, laying
the water black blue black,
it laps against the yellow light
of Denison; to the south the green stairs
of the Boulevard, lights phosphoresce, a salt crust
sparking the South-East head, diesel perfume
and the prop’s peristalsis.
North’s a scattering red and white -
a US navy duck, unlit, like a pause,
thwacks past – a dark gap blacks the East
intensifies the metal’s clang and rattle,
the pump gags brine back to the sea.
Wind-blow and bluster
chill my body homeward from the fine
harbour of this night.