At the front gate
The South Pacific
Roared and punished
The golden spit
Out the back
Basket gatherers
Rubbed feet in
The plentiful sands
Across the still waters
Of little Waihi
Tall tree tops
Lightly traced
The fine heights
Like parachutes falling
From a blood orange sky
Within minutes
Nightfall
Lights go on
Over the seabird estuary
A reassurance
Beyond the blackness.
Avie.
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