There round the dock goes Arnold,
elfin ears scanning
the morning's dark tide
on Cockatoo Island.
Walking over to the caisson,
kicking gently at its slot;
a high arm pointing out buds
of steam aft of the pumping station.
Everything as it should be,
zephyrs flashing on the brim
(his private joy); powerful suction
twisting the thickening brine
Down the scummy terraces
dawn workers pass my grandfather -
jockeying near the pit. A shouting match
ensues; bounty of doomed sea life
slithering on convict stone.
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