I love mist because the sea is visiting me
for once.
In summer, I don't need it.
The duration of a child's laugh
reminds me of turning
tides and seasons.
Time is short, I must sail on.

The fluttering hum of halyard against mast
reminds me of a child
watching
the classroom clock five minutes before
day's end.
He knows the value of a minute
spent crushing autumn's fallen gold.

Some days, I cast
a child's wish to breathe under-
-water for adult reasons.
Think of it: huge and silent.
The press of winter clouds makes me heavy,
like concrete-soled shoes
or an anchor, cast.

A rumpled water duvet framed with
house-spattered hills.
Some child's careless bath toys tacking,
the promenade awash with families.
Wellington harbour.
Spring and I are
sailing on.

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