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In the paua brew of the boathouse
I see the poet in you
Long and short waves slink
Against sand and poles.
Long waves are not my rhythm
But I drink what I can get-
A steam of rainbow colour
come in, and come out, better.
Phrases skip on silver edge
sun, wind and across the waters.
Moisture flick-up and down
Bought back to a culled surface.
Heritage is what makes you real
On criss-cross metaphors
lines of birds in the distance
into this milky feel of time.