pelican watercolour at Wynnum Foreshore, 1981 |  for Dad

 

I sit on cyan timber slats 

at your feet, start a poem for you.

 

Years from now, you’ll let your art go 

but here: you’re still sketching 

 

in art college, painting a watercolour.

A pelican on a telegraph pole

 

bristles its feathers to a gust

as you gently flourish the coastline

 

with brushstrokes, curl a hushed breeze 

through marram grass.

 

I hear a thick glob splatter      

down your back. Good grief, the reek 

 

of digested fish guts my nostrils. I can’t help 

but laugh as you peel off

 

your shirt, pack your supplies,

drive us home. Sitting beside you, bare feet

 

on the dash, I go to give you my shirt

and forget this is a poem.