Bellarine

A little lumpy, the horizon
Like moss on a fallen log, rotting in a peaty swamp
How the air must whir with wings when the mercury rises
My ankles itch just thinking about it
Super populations of larvae in the warm water sloshing against the mangroves
Here comes that trundling train again, rattling the rusty rails
Full of visitors from across the bay
Ferry-folk with a return ticket to ride
The sun’s a wallflower today, too shy to smile
Don’t let me turn cold, not like those muddy puddles by the side of the road
Reflecting a sadness I can’t place, as chill as the fast running tide
A sheet of foil chasing the day upstream, and the fish eggs
Somewhere, an inlet empties to accommodate the motion
Maybe in Ecuador, where roots also stink with the same stagnant aroma
Where immeasurable proboscis unfurl, all year round
Living short, bloody lives
But leaving their mark all the same

A lone fisherman is picking his way between the branches on the far finger of the archipelago
Dodging magpies by wearing a bike helmet with eyes painted on the back
With bait in a bucket, he’s angling for a bite, for that familiar tug
Though it’s more than likely tonight’s song will be about the one that got away
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