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A Friday Poem by Bob Orr

A poem by Bob Orr to mark the long weekend of sunlight and water.

A Friday Poem

for Steve Braunias

  _

I sailed out

in an open dinghy

a fibreglass dory with an outboard motor

that I launched in the creek

on a rising tide

not far below a cottage on a hill in Te Mata.

Keeping to the right until I'd cleared a submerged boulder

I then cut over to the left where the water was deeper.

Sailing out under the bridge

I heard the rumble

as a logging truck went over.

The First of Thames opening up before me

as I left astern a wave-broken oyster-white belfry of rock

known by the locals as Mexican Hat.

On that particular day

the water so clear I saw down to the bottom -

stones rounded off as in a mask of dreams

gazed mutely up to the world where I was passing.

To a sailor on Cook's Endeavour

as he sounded the shallows

they may have recalled a distant patch of freshly dug potatoes.

The wind was getting up

the sea turning nasty.

Amid the rough and tumble of waves

I remembered who told me "never sail on a Friday".

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