Day-Trippers

Brass-voiced and convivial on the pier
where fish are never caught, the fishermen
work hard at the masonic language of
cans and stubbies — one's off now to get
a fresh-filled cooler in case the worst should happen.
In canvas chairs circled by shrubbery
their wives gossip, watch sun-haloed children,
at ease as if in an arbour of time.
Above the horizon, a cloud-wing sprouts
from an open hand, white feathers float
in placid blue. Small as a butterfly,
the seagull climbs higher, inscribing on
the untranslatable language of clouds
its signature; becomes air and mist.