On a horizon, tainted by a faint sea-mist
A sleeping convoy lies; a convoy of coal ships.
Dormant in a morning’s light, these
Slumberous steel hulks await their turn
To come and load their bellies with the black
Of Catherine’s fossil fuel.

Somewhere north there lies the steelyards,
In a dirty industrial sprawl;
South, Munmorah’s chimney stacks,
Erect, and perilously tall,
Spew forth white fluffy plumes
Of smoke from burning Catherine’s Coal.

Macquarie’s waters, to the west, unseen,
But we know they’re there,
Beyond the hills of dry green bush
That flank our Catherine’s shores.
Though all’s irrelevant in the hush
Of the loud Australian Morn.

No hush, not loud, the tranquil white noise sound:
As wave upon wave and waves pound the rocks
And carve at the sands. What white and
Beauteous sands; I miss the smooth clean feeling
Of them sifting through my hands.

I miss the loud Australian Morning,
And the south Pacific’s crashing shores,
As etched in memory they remain,
The visions of those younger days
Spent basking alone in the humbling charm
Of the little town of Catherine Hill Bay.

Up the track, atop the hill,
Beyond the black coal stacks,
The main (and only!) street of Catherine Hill,
Its rustic (or run down?) but charmful cottages
Line both street sides, their tattered fences
Peeling paint, and verandas, welcoming.

A lone, black, gangly-legged dog comes out
To see who’s there. Plodded out into the road’s center
Took in an aimless whiff of air, crossed the road,
Sniffed again, but didn’t seem to care.
As the rest of the little mining town slowly began to stir,
And break the loud Australian hush of a glorious Pacific Morn.

Not so much a bay, as an arc of clean white sand,
Joining to north and south, two grassed, jutting headlands.
And the deep pacific blue, underneath an autumn sun;
And the steady roll of surf and tide,
The crisp salt air, and the screeching calls
Of the myriad gull’s along its perfect shore.

The love of Catherine, many men would possess,
But her innate challenge, two breeds of men accept:
The locals who work her mines, with their
Old coal-dusted hands and inescapable grime,
And an unchanged indifference that has
Allowed a world to pass, as
They retain a hint of another century’s charm.

The other, a young breed, new in man’s long past:
With sun-bleached hair, and sunglassed eyes,
Sun-bronzed skin, and four-wheel drives;
The surfer negotiates Catherine’s rugged trails
To take the challenge of riding her elusive waves;
Her solitude, her power, her waves.

That Catherine Hill Bay, my Catherine,
Her little lagoon and many caves,
Her bush and her flowers, fire trails,
And the hours and hours we spent together:
Catherine shall always remain, But that
Catherine Hill Bay is no longer.