Paul Willason Poet Free verse

Along the Canal

The canal poked like a finger
into the wrinkled abdomen
of the Port. Along its length,
ketches once bruised
wooden wharves unloading wheat
shipped from outports across the gulf.
Pigeons stalked the spill of grain
from hessian bags torn 
by wharfies hooks. Port Adelaide’s 
pigeons were kept well fed.

I can remember being harnessed
to a pole and taught to swim
in the cold, dark waters of the canal.
I thrashed and kicked but could not float.
I did not have my fathers dolphin grace
whose aquatic triumphs were engraved
on a silver trophy that stood proud 
atop a fireplace shelf.

In its final days the canal slowed 
to a halt. Wharves were empty
and gave way to rot. In the end, 
dump trucks cascaded fill down
embankments until it choked.
A car park now seals its grave 
where plastic bags sail endlessly 
across an asphalt lake.
A shopping precinct recalls its name
in gaudy signage.

Memory still has me dangling 
on the end of a pole, flailing arms 
desperately searching for something 
solid to hold, suspended
like a lead weight
above a cold abyss.

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