Nowhere flat, save the flat sea
sleeping it off in Blanket Bay.
Black shag
on a rusted pole
crucified for the rising sun.
Slender heron
white-faced heretic
watching from the shallows.
Hotere boat sheds
crumpled, corroded.
Nothing straight, save the straight cranes'
arms raised over Iona.
Shed boats every
place:left loitering on kerbsides
or tied by their noses
to the bobbing shore,
idle till men are:
then off to crease freedom
in the lineless mirror
of the sky.
In Dog Town
they sleep in their freedom,
catch fish without Jesus
and eat them,
while the contained world waits
between the shrieking train
and open water.
- Paul Chapman has lived in Port Chalmers for nine years.
