When Mum swam

the belly of the wreck

keelhauled over periwinkles

sand glowed where abattoir blood ran,

secrets of electricity spilled – power plant

perched on rocks overhead.

The deck closer to the sand,

                       closer to the sand.

Gulls thick about the bowsprit.

Clinker hull, jackass barque,

carried cables for the overland telegraph;

made us who we are, in part – brothers

of the sand; rush to discover

where waves lap and storms

lash embryos of flotsam – whiting

and garfish at the deeper end,

octopuses gripping a broken stern.

The deck closer to the sand

                       closer to the sand.

Gulls thick about the bowsprit.

When the Omeo broke its moorings

within the Sound, gale lashed

its aged body – that Mum might swim

her childhood again, write

the wreck as folklore; and we might

swim away or play the sand or lose

all thoughts of inland.

The deck closer to the sand

                       closer to the sand.

Gulls thick about the bowsprit.

With all these tricks: watch me! watch me!

dive into sheltered waters, dive

where sea filled with effluent,

where sharks dizzied in bloody fluid;

let backwashed footprints

push up to reset perfect

sandy pictures, lit by kelp.

The deck closer to the sand

                       closer to the sand.

Gulls thick about the bowsprit.