Waitematā Harbour mudflats
marked by mangroves.
My thoughts go to Manukau,
my love. Weeks ago, we walked
to the flagpole
at Waitangi. On the way
you reminded me of things
I’d rather forget
like a soon-to-be-ex. Life
has a way of rushing at me
like the unexpected movement
of tide in a peculiarly curved inlet.
You wipe away bird shit
from the binoculars
after which discourse turns
to water divination.
Taking up a length of driftwood
you address me as Gandalf
while I pick a safe
way among the grey
boulders we suspect
were placed there after
the fact. Sitting there,
leaning to shape the water
with your hand, you talk
about rock oysters. How beautiful
you look, I don’t tell you.
Reaching, I encourage you to
let me help you off the rock.
