The Wonga is sitting in her favourite spot on the driveway in the shade of a Cheese Tree. I want to go out but will disturb the bird. She has a limp but still looks shiny, a plump and tasty pigeon.
I eventually reach the cliffs, the cyclonic sea quenches a thirst for the sublime. The wristy whitewater trips over itself and breaks against the Pandanus, skeins writhe over flat rock.
Aggressive waves have breached the beach, whitewashing the slope backing up to the lip and the drop to the sea.
The virtual landscape is gleaming with tongues.
Tree scraps cradle throw away bubbles and plastic. I forgot a bag, plastic slips from my grasp, bending to pick up the pieces is getting harder.
Redundant Lifesavers huddle in the shelter of their van.
And what about the Crested Terns that fish and the Oystercatchers that probe the rocks now submerged? They are sitting it out, sleeping on one leg in the rain and wind
Our plans to meet friends this time tomorrow for a swim look doomed. So many plans have been cancelled in the pandemic these last two years. History is the story of cancellations, defeats and endings – beginnings often begin with whispers.
