Ponderings at Cotton Tree

I sit here, my head full of nothing,

beautiful Cotton Tree spread  across my view of the world,

the Maroochy River swelling to its fullest,

as it ripples and it swirls.

A young Japanese couple,

in matching tee-shirts, point to the water.

They look like they have lost their tour guide

and wonder if she is on that boat.

Questions written all over their faces,

wondering how they lost their whirlwind tour group

and found themselves alone and intimate.

A troop of Germans argue over something Germanic,

maybe they compare the Baltic Coast

and its wind-swept silvery beaches,

the dark Baltic Sea lashing at the coastline

with the anger of Neptune,

wanting to break over the land and reclaim the world.

How different to Beautiful Cotton Tree.

Fishermen cast a hopeful line

with an unhopeful worm attached to the end.

I would not be that worm for anything,

or be the fish to catch it.

Caravan owners relax outside their luxury tents,

confident of their comfortable sleep to come,

the knowing smile of someone

who does not use the public facilities,

whose hard ground is a queen bed.

But they are Baby Boomers, who started out in a tent

dating at eighteen, buying a home at thirty-two

with only enough to furnish the living room,

so now the luxury feels earned.

I earn joy from my observations,

for joy is wealthy and wise

and I will now go about my business

with my head still in the skies.