Sagging kapok beds, sea’s wash and moan,
sun yellowing papers, streaming over our lives,
wishing for nothing more, no will to move;
anglers in works gumboots, white and stolen
crossing a shingled shore to whip high rods at sun.
We watched lazily, the lazy,
as kahawai died bled in the sun.
Something to do. On a Saturday.
Lettuces leaned in the wind:
a garden for all in silty soil;
Formica tables and chairs,
stick-on flowers on the cupboards,
ratty carpet on creaking floor –
our comforts – our place.
All gone, save the beach,
reaching down for its kiss-curl waves