The danforth took grip
after driving blind in the dead of night
piercing through waves braced with fright.
Long way 'round to The Devils Sound
to hear the eerie call of the seals.
Add the whelp'n'wails of boss bull hails
with gannet and rookery squeels.
Both lazy swell an' deathly smell
permiate an off shore breeze
a pro at rest on a shellfish nest
yet he's edgey, feels a haunted unease.
On the dark of moon one night in June
at an unmanned becon's three second flash,
only a torch to dive an' stay alive
to catch'n sell the contraband cache.
Haunting noises keep the nerves on edge
phospheressence outlines cragged ledge
The decky gathers bags
to box up the shells,
while wedged to the gunnel
'coz he cant see the swells
Over the side follows
an aura like glow
ominous shadows
above the diver below.
No lights on the dash
or light up a smoke
don't want to alert
insomniac folk.
'Bout a hundred kgs from each of five drops
half hour between headlands an' bombie tops.
Morning grey greets 'em
with a slight breeze up their **bleep**
back over the border and legal at last.
A primus cooked brekky of bacon and eggs
with hot coffee in hands
sat to rest their legs.
Waved to the locals on their way to start work
too tired to laugh
just managed a smirk.
The end of an era,
he'd been doin' it for years
was a better bandito than most of his peers.
See,
later that week fisheries
were to be issued a gun
that extra element
took away all the fun.
