The Rena by Deryn Pittar

A small knoll in the sea
marked on the maps
captures and holds fast the Rena.
From this dot on the horizon
black death oozes
and blows to shore in a three day storm

In the dark the first pancakes of tar arrive,
then later, oil dresses all the beach in black -
like burnt flesh on the white arms of our land.


Stacked containers tumble overboard,
falling like children”s blocks.
Doors spring, metal twists, their innards spill.
They drift or sink, as fancy takes them
and spew their contents on the beaches.
Seagulls eat, until so full they can barely fly,
yet cannot cease to feast on this unexpected bounty.


Along the dunes the lines of mourners stand,
banished from the beach, forbidden access,
thousands of volunteers with willing hearts - waiting to be “trained”

The sea leaves her hostages at the high tide line.
Sea birds with black tarred feathers,
dead oiled seals with dull glazed eyes.
At the Wildlife Rescue Centre fairy penguins
duck and dive in their private pool.
Birds peer from cages, saved but not yet free.


The army is in town.
Unimogs and mobile kitchens,
lines of white garbed figures with breathing masks.
Like storm troopers escaped from a Star Wars film,
they clean and scrape the sand in precise lines.
The shopping list:
Office Space, computers, phones,
quad bikes to patrol the beach.
Decontamination sites,
huge skips with black liners,
trucks, cranes, pipes and tarpaulins.
Helicopters and small aircraft hired
Sonar seeks elusive containers.


“No Vacancy” signs swing in the wind
“Latte Shops” are busy
Who said, “No good will come of this”?
Day seven, clean sand, we hold our breath - waiting.