"Moreton Mirror"

I nodded to a stranger
by the ferry pier,
and the stranger nodded back,
his eyes holding the flat shimmer
of the bay at low tide.

When his brow folded
it was like the mangroves bending
to the southerly;
I felt my own lines deepen.
Every small movement I made,
he echoed -
until I greeted him
as though we’d hauled crab pots together.
The lie tasted of salt.

Ah, this tide -glass man!
Fibber, mate, dream-bloomer,
railway-yard philosopher,
dry-throated drinker of nor’easter dust -
he will follow me
down Annerley’s back lanes
when the jacarandas have dropped
their mauve confetti,
when all the neighbours
are behind closed insect screens.

We hook arms;I lose the thread of time,
the shopping list, the rent due -
but not him.
Even in the dark under the Story Bridge,
he stays,
pulling me home along
the river’s black ribbon.

.