Robert Gray

Byron Bay: Winter

Barely contained by the eyesight,
the beach is one great arc.
There overlap behind it
blue ranges, each a tide-mark.

Beside me, swamp oaks’ foliage
streams hatching by Cézanne.
Out on the heath, a guard’s carriage
follows the vats of a train.

Beyond, cloudy afternoon swells,
the colour of claret stain.
The sunlit town’s strewn like petals;
its lighthouse a tiny pawn.

I turn, when far off. The sun brings,
because it’s perfect warmth,
the feeling that I wear great wings
while stepping along the earth.