Maitland Bay

By | 22 June 2001

You hardly moved
lying like a sea slug
in sepia,
dreaming of sky fluorescence.
As if reading braille
you ran your fingers
over tiny shells,
a trail of ornamental bones
on bleached sand.

Hours later the moon rose,
full breasted,
white Godiva,
flaunting it
for the green tipped
for bleeding eucalypts
& saffron-sprinkled

At dusk we left the
gossamer bay.
Your body heaving,
breathless from exertion
wanting to break
the shackles
wanting to enter
the spirit
of all these forms.

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