A two layer jetty.Rust speckled struts lie above solid supports --once bent, twisted by tidal storm and high-moon' storm rage.This, a million dollar fix.A patch-up job.Destined to be repeated when the salt-burn cascades inwards.This, even the contractors know.Paid for their skill, they scurry as hermit crabs before the waves,abandoning the sea.Laughing at the storm-washed violence from high in the trees.On the cliffs, along the shore, the public, the storm-chasers pine.Beneath she-oaks, casuarinas, they weep, as the wind willows, billows.What a a few missing slats to the hungry? --Who would stand, dance, surrounded by storm light above sundered seasWho would plan predatory picnics for fishes, with long ticket lines.Who would, relaxing, stalk the ever-fleeing sun and document its every movement.These denizens of the jetty, banned from its surface,now pick up the panicked paceand prey.But the jetty, patched - cobbled together by parts, lightning bolts, and prayers -is content.To it, hermit crabs are old friend, their scurrying ticklish;their deconstruction a reliefFor whilst disassembled, the churning lope of interlopers, who forever pummel,no longer threatentheir backbreaking pain.If the back is broken,there is no pain,only the gentle onshore breezeand the cold caress of waves against old struts.