The engines bark into life, the hull
shouldering off the pontoon, moving
into the river, then easing back
into a gentle turn, gliding
straight across the chestnut-coloured
water, spackled
with leaf litter from the rains.
The ferry is packed, people push
past one another,
unseeing.
…
At North Quay, passengers crowd the foredeck
before moving onto the pontoon, snaking
up the gangplank and into the city.
…
Heading south, a homeless
encampment crouches under
the Kurilpa Bridge
in the gardens.
It has expanded.
The only movement—
the slow flapping
of a blue tarpaulin.
…
Past that, the twin diesels rev hard;
the boat surges and a boy appears,
running in a green Raiders shirt
and yellow Crocs that
gleam in the sunlight,
leans over the gunwale, shrieking,
and I laugh.
But another boy—excited too—
insists a young man
clap—or slap one hand
against his thigh. He insists with his
hands. I do not hear him
speak.
I stop laughing,
and return to silence.
…
The river spreads its hands; the sky grows,
its blueness distinct behind
ephemeral clouds, sun bright and hard,
heat soaking into everything, the humidity
alive.
…
Throttle easing, we coast past Orleigh Park,
more beautiful than I remember.
Dark ficus tower over the lawns—
people are everywhere.
…
After Guyatt Park, the boat shudders into a full-throated roar,
lurching toward the shore, then dropping back,
coasting into an arc that meets the pontoon.
The engines reverse, wash surging violently
before cutting off. The hull bumps softly
against the pontoon and it’s time
to get off.
…
Along the river, people lie on blankets
in front of storm-wracked mangroves,
the sun blasting
moisture from the sodden soil,
lifting it
into the thick air.
Teenagers smile while
unmaking a Jack-o’-lantern
with a steak knife.
A large group is having a picnic,
a Buddhist monk in
maroon and yellow robes
among them. Children play
while the adults talk.
…
Alone on the lawn,
a tree:
broken branches lie on the ground, but
the leaves on the remaining branches
are sapling-green; still growing.
…
They don’t think.
The sun comes
and life happens.
All by itself.
…
…
Start Here → Next: [Under the Bridge] · [The Night is Young]· [after the storm]
