The breeze brings the smell of fresh oysters, as a celestial blue sky is glimpsed behind the clouds, white and dark grey, but breaking into tendrils, unthreatening.
Sculptural cranes in the port to the north could be art, and the low tide reveals mudflats, driftwood wrapped in seaweed, sand caviar made by tiny crabs.
A seagull takes flight, a lapwing digs up his dinner.
A drone zooms past, its green light flashing, no doubt getting a better video than from this single vantage point.
Men and women in active wear exercise alone, with friends, with dogs, focused on their talks or task.
The sun sets, unseen behind me, tinging my sky pale pink, soft coral, complementing its perfect light blue.
A man throws a ball for his dog, who reluctantly gets it, because he was asked, and because he’s loved.
The tide changes the shape of the mudflats, replacing the browns with the pinks and corals and blues reflected in ripples.
Fat raindrops splatter arm, cheek, daring the writer to take shelter. She is waterproof, so is her phone, her swyping implement of notation.
Together we wait for the blue moon to rise, the super moon of tonight’s perigree, the blood moon of the eclipse, trusting that we will record it’s beauty before a forced retreat.
The clouds now darker, are forming together but still unthreatening. We are saved by our narrowing sliver of heavenly light.
A coven, three sisters arrive with yoga mats and pizzas as they await the full moon rising, exclaiming their love of intention as the pavilion becomes available for their ritual.
A grey bearded man shuffles erect but limping, raising his hand and a smile to the little girl on the bike.
The wind sings it’s arrhythmic song in my ears, embellished with demand of mynas in the pine tree.
The grey has completed the horizon, and I feel blessed to have the memory of the beauty behind it.
The magpie warbles his song as the rain comes down, spelling unintended words on the screen.
The sky now dark, the clouds dense, no room for the light of the moon, silvery, blue, or blood red.
The photographer will have to wait. The poet is satisfied.
Sarah Bonnar 