A sunless day and coolish. No weather
for a picnic. We have parked by the lake
and are eating our sandwiches in the car.
It’s one of those melancholy days when lake
and sky are the same grey; even the trees,
paperbarks mostly, offer only variations of tone.
The whole scene looks as though it’s composed
of fabrics: silk, faintly wrinkled, for the great
stretch of water, dark stitching for distant
oyster leases, with here and there embroidery
of black swans, while the folded, bush-clad hills
present a sombre tangle of knitting wool.
The cloudy sky is a vast cashmere shawl
—but here the fantasy begins to falter,
for looking at the big picture, we’ve failed
to notice modest runabouts the fishermen
have moored not far off-shore, and suddenly
we realise they are crammed (appliquéd?)
with pelicans, four or five to a boat,
taking their ease, silent, companionable,
as if they’re waiting for latecomers before
setting out on their party of pleasure.