I watch the gulls shimmy above the shallows, full of sunrise song in a symphony with the ocean orchestra, recalling summer days burnt, my sandprints just pipis, maybe a few grains more, it was squawks of scavengers swerving missiles of my wrist spun dosinias. Now at the bay it is balding, bare islands wrinkled sprinkled in trinkets like memories, abandoned, strewn driftwood textured, twisted, tortured by age, shells well ringed, edges nibbled away by voyage, tumble washed up in late surges of the day near to a boy building a castle and moat to fend off the inevitable onset of the swirling invader, futilely equipped with black bucket and spade, whilst I finish off my page, another chapter, and amble back the overrun track, like weaving through time, home time, time to place my book upon the oak shelf where there’s still 30 odd left failing fire or theft, so a few more will have to go to the recycle centre unread.
go pūkeko 