Seen from the beach
Byron Bay February 1986
The shadows in the day have turned around.
Waves with sun inside them crest and pour
their light along the sand. Reﬂected sky
promises a duplicate tomorrow. Only Moore
could write these evening lights into a song
of tides and lives receding. Lines to leave
for every Celtic parent in the world
to pass on distant things in. Only he
could write like that about an hour like this –
and get it wrong.
Echo and Narcissus
Face down where asphalt steams in sunlight – grey
Narcissus at the pools street-cleaners leave
in gutters in the mornings. Silence where
his friend waits, spaced and vacant,
fingers flexing, clutching nothing, smiling
at the distance, waiting for her day
to sharpen focus, Lights and sirens bear
the remnants of this misplaced myth away.
Swami on a Sandhill
His dog leans gently on his arm.
The swami scowls and elbows it away.
Then, ﬁngers in a ring, seeks out the calm
of some nirvana out across the bay.
Cease seeking friend, it’s clear
you’ve lost direction and
whatever Lord there is has given you
far more than you deserve already here
beside you on the sand.
The Channon Market
With stress and cash flow far away
their back-to-basics stalls display
stone ground muesli, head bands, lines
of tie-dyed folk-weave – Bankcard signs.