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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