On such small land

between north head and south bay

any standing is in touch-reach of the sea:

no need to define the limits

of a personal estate.
At sunset eyesight heads east

and east and east until it trips

over the horizon into rising dusk.

An aorta of darkness

pulses towards the southern cross.
All summer

a cold spring wells and whispers

under the hot leaves.

She laces her fingers to bring carefully

a small shared water to their workdried lips.
Leaves shuffle the seasons,

light-angles move across thready bushes

unsteadily timing the hours,

birdstorms incoherently

tumble through scatters of petal.
Sky's voltage cracks down on their hearth

and stuns it into order.

On an island this small

(for the camera he sideshows

between finger and time-flattened thumb)
in a worldscape too large

to play other than dangerous games with

(she nods her two-penn'orth)

they stretch out unclad arms

and juggle each day.