Sun-shell trees
blow scorched rhythm,
waters edge
against time and tide.
Concrete grades
'gainst concrete sea.
Who holds back
the high tide City
as ocean recedes?
Foul-wind shaves
'cross five-o'clock shadows.
Buildings yawn,
pushing away the sun.
The tired old jetty
leashing yachts
wagging impatient masts
knows oranged concrete marks
the high tide City |
Submission Name: Port Nicholson
