encased in an almost-convincing inhale of cotton

(all cerulean blue and burgundy coddled)

is a ritual as ancient as the windcheater

that somehow still smells like you
like salt and surf wax

neoprene and sunscreen
it casts the mind back – 
a sunburnt nose

drips sea water

onto carpet
ninja turtles made

from laundry baskets 
bike rides to the river

a bridge-crossing like terabithia’s

watching for echidnas
waiting for the riverbed

to swell and break with rain

for all the trash and treasure

to greet the ocean’s maw
a blue-tongue in the garage

almost takes a shovel to the neck,

the danger of another dugite

fades into the concrete

like snakes into the brickwork
a persisting christmas tradition:

plucking chillis to punish

the loser of lawn bowls –

this sharing of fire

resembles friends

breaking bread 
bluebottles popped barefoot

translucent jellies tossed underarm

contrast to torpedoed paddy melons,

scattering bruises that fade

to the yellow of their insides 
polished abalone, prettier than pearls