Bondi sketches

in the Icebergs pool

the weekday swimmers pulse gently

along deep green lanes

like contented jellyfish

across the bay the Pavilion raises a row of arched eyebrows

at the near-naked humans on the sand

and the neat ranks in the car park are a stock-still herd

of glass-eyed tourists, transfixed

by the million-dollar view

the flags are all exemplary, each standing straight out from its pole

like the stars and stripes planted on the moon

a two metre swell teases the surfers—

small dark seal shapes bobbing

in the grey marbled hollow of the backwash

all at once, three rise side by side

on a sliding dune of foam

and are carried for thirty seconds before sinking together

into the same small disappointment

just off the headland

the seaweed-furred rocks

keep drawing over themselves

—and casting off again—

thick veils of tumbled glistening lace

and out to sea,

massed grey cumulus clouds

their bottoms sliced straight off

half a mile clear of the horizon

like someone forgot to finish the…