Sunday, 30 December 2007

I walk Alone

I often walk alone

through the black sands of memory

fleet footed past twisted driftwood

of thoughts on a fast running tide

Jagging at the blood shoot

and the sound of steam whistles

mutton on the chain

and then again

silver finned catches chasing whitebait

over the painted pole

Faintly now

the sound of wild West Coat surf

receding with time

from place and time

Far away and further still

from Egmont's cone

cold winds upon the breath of Tasman storms

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