Black sand flies rhythmically
behind the black dog, who joyfully
digs and digs and digs and digs and digs
Then pauses, looks up, expectantly at his owner –
Do you approve? Did you notice?
Want to play? I’m a good boy.
Then, back to his hole again, he
digs and digs and digs and digs and digs.
I find a protected place to sit
while the shy sun dutifully
warms my back
and warms the sand
which warm my feet.
I lay down, mindful of the dune planting,
to let my body soak up the heat from below,
supported in the softness of the sand,
so fine, so delicate, it sticks between my toes,
into my ears, my mouth, my nose – my eyes, my pen
but I know,
come summer, it will burn.
As the October wind
whips and whips and whips and whips and whips
it quickly changes the two-toned patterns in the sand,
ripples the stream,
blows the frothy head off the waves,
clears the cobwebs of thought from my brain.
The amazing daisy that I shouldn’t have picked,
the one whose harvest colours
remind me it’s autumn somewhere,
deposits an insect
content to explore this page
and go for a ride while it
flaps and flaps and flaps and flaps and flaps.
The seal-skinned surfer suddenly surprises me.
clicks and clicks and clicks and clicks and clicks
as he eagerly runs toward the water with his board.
Then another one… why are they running?
It’s springtime in Piha – blowing winter away.
Xanthe Strong ©
Written at Te Wahi Ora Women’s Writing Weekend