Poem number 28.
I feel like a marathon runner, in the last 5 kms of the race. I’ll make it, but there’s not much left in the tank.
This poem came from a fragment in my notebook, from when I was at Goolwa Beach last year. I saw a group of oystercatchers on the beach, and was amused by their antics. They seemed determined to get as close to the water as possible without getting wet. This resulted in manic dashes up the beach whenever a wave came in.
dash over the beach
daintily avoid the rush of sea.
Red nosed, black and white clothed
like inebriated head waiters.
Too self important
to take their hands
from behind their backs,
too dapper to get their feet wet.
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