At Brunswick Heads, New South Wales, September 2006 - Poem by Peter Bakowski
The river is brown-hued, wide.
In its shallows small black fish appear,
hyphens of life,
pleasing barefoot children.
The river is pelican-ushered to the sea. .
The beach curves south to a crop of hills
where a white lighthouse stands,
its spiralling stairs now climbed
by camera-burdened tourists.
In the sky, there’s a small plane, silver-bellied,
gone when you turned
to a Ruth Rendell paperback.
This coastline asks you to name yourself,
fisherman, beachcomber, surfer, retiree,
to examine whether you’re more than that.
eases from rock to sky,
becomes a speck and miracle
to a small boy, a sandcastle lord,
standing sandy-kneed, squinting.
The wind, the waves, play their games of give and take,
the horizon searches its deep pockets
for the makings of tomorrow’s weather.
(from Beneath Our Armour)
Comments about At Brunswick Heads, New South Wales, September 2006 by Peter Bakowski
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye