At The River

Crow-caws, intermittent but remorseless.
A middle-aged woman on a bench:
ahead, yellow daisies in grass, a mynah
picking at mustard sand along the water,
white butterflies bobbing on air's high tide —
brief, jumpy pairings among spinifex.
The river is brown as a tilled field but for
cloud streaks, resilient rumours of drowned blue.
Weekend sailors stir pools cut by ghost spars,
out tending craft named Valiant, Madness,
Get Wet. A sail unfurls. As the wind shifts
a dank salt smell enters deep into the brain,
lays claim to bare skin. Yes, it is all here:
the makings of another summer.