Glad iron bars
covered in oysters
combing the shallows
catching lonely rags and wire.

I love your gaps
your rusted failures
where the stingrays fold in
& frighten us.

You sound like a wheelbarrow
in all the wind & lapping.
I wonder if it stings
when the birds run their beaks
along your blooming cracks.

How many Decembers have you seen?
Hands reeling in wire,
hoping for that beautiful gumboot?
And how many running wet feet,
slipping across your back?

This is a Cornetto moment,
w/ all the flicked pip mandarins,
& pregnant bellies being rubbed,
under ice-cream umbrellas,

The setting sun
dipping over the final planks
of your splintered neck.
Dear anchored bath,
what were the 30’s like?