this is the tide, turning (poem)

A poem I wrote a while ago, from the deck of a bach at Port Waikato.

this is the tide,

turning

This is you on the deck.

That bird is a tern.

The tide is procrastinating – this way or that?

That is a crab scurrying into a hole

in the brown sludge. This is what

it looks like when the tide’s out,

the inlet’s shiny coat reflecting a stand

of trees, and the grey smoke sky, before

the dunes begin. That is the sound

of a plane, cutting its arc

through the air.

That is a tern calling to another tern –

a babble of barking– like small dogs or frogs

learning their language. Half bark,

half whatever it is frogs do. This is the whistle

of another bird – high and screechy. That is the sun

coming in after having the day off.

This is Sunday.

There are children on a blue swing going

in opposing directions. This yellow slide stands out –

its colour and its angles. That tree next to the park

is shaped like a green lollipop. That is a blue bach

on a small hill, with a sunset orange umbrella.

This is the neighbour’s house, all cream

and green and on the flat.

That is the squabble of terns escalating.

This is you admiring

the hurried footsteps

of the Asian fishermen scurrying

to take their place on the edge

of the bay.