Cabarita Headland – Martin Langford

High buildings smile behind short buildings.
Tall bushes wave behind small.
People speak nicely here. Dogs never run.
Teddy-bears sit out in rows on the edges of beds.
Mapless, original tangles of figroot and overhang
never existed. This has perspectives. And orientations.
Cellular shadows revolve around clocks of mock stone.
Water spools into the vanishing point of the pond
at the one constant wobble. And thought has been given
to comfort: between gate and walkway, and walkway
and bay, there are soft, moulded lawns for the bum.
You can sit out and stare at the signless here: wind
and its shadows; the tides, their impressionist bling.
Everything else is the covenant.
Apart from the ghosts of the windows –
who stare from an order they cannot slow down for –
as if they’d thought once that this net of enclosures
might save them: unnoticed, uncalled.