The Seventh Day

The water wriggles and, familiar, slaps
The sleeping tug. The skipper's washing flaps,
Primly and wind-bloated, to the west.
Jelly-fish float blousy in the tide,
Try to go, but never quite decide,
For it is Sunday, and a day of rest.

A sailor lolls over the squat ship's side
And trails a line, and knows that he is eyed
Long by girls who seem to love the sea.
Arm in arm they saunter, nose in air,
Scarlet jacketed, and blonde of hair
For it is Sunday and a kiss is free.

A pigeon sidles to investigate
A Hindu chopping spotties up for bait,
Dirty and inscrutable. Alone
Mirrored in scum his likeness undulates,
Slowly stills. The bead-eyed pigeon waits
For it is Sunday and the gulls still moan.

The townmen loiter on the wharves and stare,
And guess what ship is whose and why it's there,
Wondering if they'll ever sail away,
And while the water winks a leery eye
Law on a bicycle rides stiffly by,
For it is Sunday and crime doesn't pay.

Jan Minogue