The pier
I still remember Talaimannar pier,
So old and grey, the burden of the train,
The amber lights, the rhythm of the sea,
And far beyond, the bounding of the main.
I used to go there when the day was done,
With fishing rod, and angle patiently;
In time the ferry boat, its port light red,
Would come, its fenders strung protectively
Along its sides from bow to rounded stern
And men would race to seize the mooring rope
Secure the boat - and all the while the pier
Would stand unmoved while labourers would cope
With crates and boxes, suitcases and bags,
The passengers who scrambled to the train,
The rush for sleeping berths, for window seats,
The pier bearing all with scant disdain.
It stretches out, its arches take the load,
Like javelin dissolving in the night,
The ferry time is when the fish come in
Around the boat in feeding frenzy bright.
But far beyond the rocking rush and crush,
Where pier ends, salutes the looming sea,
I'd listen to the thrumming of my line
And lose myself in deep tranquillity.
My rod would arch, the duel would begin,
A streak, a swish, a dancing mullet white,
The pier watches as each catch comes in,
I hear its lazy chuckle in the night.
Carl Muller |
