Fremantle, caught in a net – A Poem

FREMANTLE, CAUGHT IN A NET

Not a city of Lego, not a jigsaw
or a Rubik cube. A jumble
of difference, parts of purpose
and history singing, hovering
and hanging together, by virtue
of you, its residents.

Fremantle shapes, sizes,
textures and sounds, dimensions,
hard surfaces, corrugated iron,
brick, stone, sand. And gardeners.
Grow succulents!
Grow natives!
Fill it with pavers.

Move with speed and intent
on bike, scooter, car. Fremantle
of squealing brakes and
parking-fine curses. Don’t
walk ‘til it’s your turn
at the clicking lights.

The height, the light, the air,
water slapping on the shore,
dogs at play, the spray, the moon
how hard not to say blue, pendulum-like,
against an orange-furnace sky.

Bodies passing, skirting, running,
turning. Faces flashing, legs astride,
legs limber, legs lame, old woman
leaning on her gate gazes,
thinking of her grandfather.
“In Mesopotamia he was”, she says.

The young man there, hands thrust
deep in pockets, collar up
like a clichéd shadow against a wall.
Even if we held him close,
we could not stop his course.

The quick catch of a child running,
flying to pat the dog to dig
fleshy fingers deep in fur.
A child’s soft cheek cupped
in the palm of your hand.

The man in the doorway
trying to sleep, back hunched
against all intrusion. Money
in the pocket and you’ll feel
better, they say, better
than having none.

Walk through doors
into airy, curated spaces,
chaotic, sometime strangeness.
Each home hemmed
by sea and sky, only light
cracks the dark horizon.

Fremantle where three old men
sitting on a bench in town
turn their heads like sunflowers
following the sun as the young
woman saunters past.

Fremantle where, the old woman says,
“I can’t walk near to buy neither
hammer nor nail. All I wanted was
two nails for the cupboard. Nothin’.”

Fremantle echoing on the lips
of strangers in far-off countries.
Sailors and backpackers
dreamers and wannabes.
Paradise, some say.
Keep it a secret, say others.

Catch a city in a net of words?
Such hubris, dead common
in these streets and cafes.
Listen! Its Politics in the Pub!

Its all the faces, all the thoughts,
this one wants to make it better,
this one thinks of killing his neighbour,
this one thinks she can’t get by without
him, this one thinks of her dying sister.

All the thoughts, the actions,
the sighing the breathing
the panting and the heaving
and the stars overhead.
Enough!

Let’s to the beach instead.

* By Christine Owen.

Christine Owen is a regular Shipping News writer whose contributions can be found right here.

And if you’d like to hear Christine read her poem, listen below.

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Enjoy Christine Owen reading her poem right here!