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.
Let me 'neath fleecy clouds be. For spring is here.
God's creation all for me. For spring is here.
So many glorious gardens to admire,
Clematis attracts a bee. For spring is here.
Aubrietia produced in profusion,
Scented Daphne in valley. For spring is here.
Up in the mountains, veiled with alpine flora,
Wild primrose and rosemary. For spring is here.
Orioles and robins lured by blush cherries,
Magnolias so airy. For spring is here.
But there on the calm wide seas, racing dinghies
Ketches, sloops sail to the quay. For spring is here.
Oh man, what's that I hear, someone is sneezing?
Hay fever? Or allergy? For spring is here.
11 syllables per line.
11 September 2020
Ghazal Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
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