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.
Sam Hunt
