Sunday Morning
Begins in fog pressing on the eye
the dimensions shrunk to two,
a damp bird waiting in a dead tree,
a white Black-shouldered Kite.
The bay spreads before us, mist
sinking beneath the mountains
surfers travel in two directions,
one is standing on water.
Red-backed Wrens frolic on the edge,
we retreat to a café where someone
asks me if I worked for National Parks,
recognised after 25 years – a small world.
