The Point

By Peter Halstead

Tourists stop in their tracks
Transfixed against the sea
On the point just across from me.
Too overwhelmed to move,
They never cluster the way
That people do in towns,
Around a department store display,
But halt like rooted dots,
Or clowns, turned to salt, lined up
Like pillars or the wife of Lot,
Aku Aku heads,
Facing out from land,
Worshipping the ocean beds,
Frozen where they stand.

December 23rd, 2018