An Oystercatcher is calling over the breakers,
I scan the rocks, no sign, probably a Sooty,
photograph canyons scribbled through
the rockpools and our bathing pool, the sea
is floating, spreading, pushing and falling in.
North, the coast is glistening, I squint
in the shine then look down onto golden
lustre to take and bring back to my love,
a deserved currency crossing the Pacific.
The Chinese character for money began
as a pictograph of a cowrie shell.
I hear the call again, coming closer,
a pair flying so close, the air obedient
to their beautiful black wings
a wonder opening up the view south.
Beauty is usually imperfect but still a cure for many things.