Floodwall Afternoon

As I sat on the river's floodwall
the flax leaves slapped,
talking to the wind like a
murmuring crowd of concert goers
when the main act's late.

A fat landfill-fed gull slid
through the sky above
my chill metal bench which had
been canvas for pens
marking their territory.

And behind me on the
warm muscle of Mawhera Quay a
glistening sizzle of light washed metal drove
past. Mates who held the gauzy washed
spread of whitebait nets along the
outside door threw voices
full of hunter success through
the street.

And I stood but failed to
catch the strands.