St Kilda beach, Dunedin.
yet to be un-picked by the next season,
quick or slow, the summer-fried dry seed heads;
dated bouquets; that sound of a cricket's
hidden generator. The silent-grey
swoop of a gull's wing, swish of grass, a bird's
flick-knife flight, milky spider's nest, a bee
nosing fallen flowers. The slain dried grass,
the muted fury beyond the sand-dunes;
that wild, pale roar of a wind-ploughed ocean.