Blue Ribbon and Brine

The river here bends on itself
It sprawls on gravel,
tumbles on log and stick
It is at the end of its run
It has come through gorge
and shingle fan;
it breaks around the skinny legs of birds,
then deepens as the braids conjoin
Now it is not a river, but a slow deep mass
It glides between cliff and shingle bar
With a swish, it is gone
The mouth shifts with the river’s moods:
up the coast and down
It enters the brine
where bright cottages stood
They have gone; lost to unsteady ground
Soon the whitebaiters will come;
(dripping nets, silver prey) and the shags
will come in waves, bellies full of fish,
lock air brakes to drop where the blue ribbon
cuts its most graceful curve