The Morning from Cremorne,
Sydney Harbour

Someone sets it
Turning again,
Dumps of junk
Jewellery doing
Their slow burn:
Bonbons spill, and a
Rocket rips,
Pops, goes haywire
Inside the head
Of an emerald pit
Some con man sold
Who’s dead, perhaps.

With each night showing
Your share less
You weep for the careless
Day’s use:
A play of light
That folds each night
While the milkmen dress.

Con man, milkman,
Someone wires
The light traps,
Ice fires:
The hail-fall blazing
Trails to dawn
That will take the wraps
Of white glass wool
From the warships
Coming into their own
Cold steel.