Summer is the radius of white plovers,
light swallowed by each wavelet
& the tourist biplane dissecting the new blue of midday.

In Sydney it gatecrashes (around NOW)
just for a moment
then winter never feels at home.
She will move out like some rattled tenant
with a short-term lease
in the rough part of an unruly town.

The sun hangs with the lazy indiscretion of old men's balls
& our perky little caps are more
affirmation than armour.
There's the slap & hum
opalescent beetles
brisk nipples, the shy display
of wattle from the verge
747s & crippled buoys
pale white skin
on raw sugar sand.

We open
without hurry.
Straight lines don't fit
& our black cottons are heavy by the shore.