On Time Poem by Phillip Ellis

No yachts, here, passing,
a hundred, more or less,
or like a golden undertow,
the suckle of the ocean wave

that simmers back against the beach
within a form of foaming web
of white. No, time is like the passing grey-
tinged green of eucalypts, their grey bark

delicate pastel shades. The hill
is sloping southwards and down, an ah
of finely packed trees, passing eastwards
as I pass to the west.

This is no westwards travel, to another
California, awaiting us with
a form of gold rush optimism. No,
this is a west of night, and the gone.