by Billy Collins

It’s July in the southern hemisphere: mid-winter.  A beautiful morning for a walk on the beach, though.

Catching the Tide

(In memoriam John Clark, lost at sea)

I didn’t join the search party;

watched it gathering at the cruising club;

came to watch the fishing boats instead.

I better be careful you don’t become our Lycidas,

you silly old bugger, John,

seems like you’ve done it this time –

you tried hard enough last year,

drove your yellow Triumph Stag

north up the railway line,

met the Northerner travelling south.

The car – I never did like Triumphs –

the inevitable write-off.

I forget what happened after that

except that you walked away laughing

pissed beyond caring.

       STRICTLY NO FISHING WHILE ON THIS BRIDGE

the NZR sign reads.

Or is it

  STRICTLY NO WRITING POEMS WHILE ON THIS BRIDGE

                    GAZING AT THE FISHING BOATS

                        GRAZING HEAVY MOORINGS

                                        STRICTLY

                        NO DREAMING OF OPEN SEAS

Cook Strait is deeper than coffin or urn.

I didn’t join the party.

Join yours instead,

the Big One that never ends;

come to catch the tide, Clarkie,

turning as the fishing boats turn.

“There is no abstract art.
You must always start with something. Afterward you can remove all traces of reality.”

~ Pablo Picasso