Teahouse, dark lake, all but forgotten

 
Teenagers, we wed, my fiancée not yet pregnant
though dancing guests love clinging to clichés.
After the reception at my new in-laws we decamp
to a rented two-room backyard bungalow
patrolled by a sour widow, our voyeuristic landlady.

Thirty-six hours later we journey east by train,
my savings eked for a three-day honeymoon
at Lakes Entrance because I love the name, the idea,
imagining future pleasing replies when asked.
Rural waiting rooms glimpsed slide into my past.

Not working disorients my obsessive senses, as does
sharing a bed all night despite sex on awakening.
Ways of loving, understanding, vague, my privacy
paramount, I skitter from strangers’ glances
touching us, their resentment of what we get up to.

A non-swimmer doggedly compiling a romantic CV,
cigarettes soaked, elbows a semaphore, hull sloshing,
seagulls wheeling, eyes, beaks, claws, from a movie,
I manage to moor at a teahouse in miasmal mist.
Cloud low now, her laugh’s dark ripples echo.  



Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in , Antipodes, Australian Book Review, Australian Poetry Journal,  The Brasilia Review,  Poetry Salzburg Review,  The Stony Thursday Book, & Two-Thirds North.  His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide).  He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia.