I never tire of the port
Of the sea birds, smell of fish and chips, accents, hippies and white trash dogs.
I never tire.
I never tire of it already humming when I arrive,
Brimful of oil tankers, container ships, fishing boats, ferries, tug boats, ships carrying logs or cars or fertilizer. I never tire of the port, keeping itself busy with trucks, buses, cars and tiny yellow helmeted people driving forklifts and other lifting, carrying, moving, shifting, stacking and unstacking machines. I never tire of it quiet and empty, sea hovering placidly around the wharf, not bothering to look busy.
I never tire of the port, of the rocky outcrops on the hill tops, pushing their scarred faces into the soft bosom of the sky. Of the yogic clouds sinking lower, lower, a little lower, over green-gold hills, of the glassy sea coloured sea, routinely defying description, or of the rocks, or of the heads, or of the fall down, tumble down jetties. I never tire.
