Ben Boyd’s tower
The bay’s silk curtain is
blue milk, draped from the opposite shore
the sea pricked out in boats
their white sails dancing upon its pleats
through the spyglass he scanned
the coves, the inlets, their crescent smiles
and across to Eden
a Stink, the whale bones lying about
covered by feeding crows
Framed in a high window
he might look like a wandering ghost
his skin freckled, weathered
his eyes pink-rimmed, lips dry, salt-glistered
a struggle climbing up
seabirds caterwauling round his head
he grasped his broad-leafed hat
lest the wind snatch it for the ocean
and show his thinning pate
Toward the spindrift-blurred
horizon, something in him yearning
always had, since boyhood
he’d built a port, a place with his rules
and his own currency
though all was against him − the weather!
lack of labour, the laws!
Not his fault his ventures have collapsed
suddenly, he was bored
Sea eagles were circling
an aeronaut, he might fly away
but could only climb down
a servant came forth with his carriage
helped him up, awkwardly
he glanced at himself in his mirror
slicked down his balding crown
he, who felt himself a personage
was he still comme il faut?
Along the ship-wrecked coast
hidden vessels drift beneath the waves
octopuses’ gardens
huddle in the weed-furred rotting hulls
in deep green whale-strong swells
he made for the Pacific Islands
dragging his submerged selves
plotting a republic, a land grab
sailed to his secret death
The scorched tower still stands
its headland now fire-razed, scalped of scrub
tourists potter about
pause before the signage − warped, melted
and will it be replaced?
the tower’s cordoned off − they ignore
pose, in its emptiness
watch the waves slam vermilion rock
below treacherous cliffs
Wind mouths the lone tower
tourists speculate − these sandstone blocks
carried miles, from Sydney
by bullock train, at enormous cost
who was Benjamin Boyd?
a colonial Christopher Skase?
but more, a blackbirder
wrought death, disease on his captured men
indifferent to their fate
Matting the headland now
green and juicy growth − wattle, myrtles
spring out of charcoal ground
fire has revealed the middens, the shells
crumbling to ashy earth
signs of those whose place it was, and is
the romance is fading
listen − other voices are speaking
a new naming begins
