Queens Parade, Devonport

There are ferries at the bottom of our garden. (ARD Fairburn)

Yes, my love, all the ferries gather here:
Buddha-like ferries potbellied and blue,
Ferries that whistle when the coast is clear,
Aging ferries decked out to look like new,

Breakneck ferries enchanted by the air,
Broken ferries encumbered by the land,
Ferries that cross the gulf from here to there
Glinting like gold coins in the water’s hand,

Ferries that wear the sunrise like a stain,
Midnight ferries too narrow for our dreams,
Vanishing ferries airbrushed by the rain,
Ferries en route from it is to it seems,

And one ferry tiered like a wedding cake
Spinning its heart out in the moon’s white wake.

© Helen Sword 2009