We ride in it our day begins with bikes beneath our grip while jetties stretch from milk sand to copen sea and burrowing hills as light as air our supple feet unfurl a nostril scent of fishing nets and thawing prawns inside each harbour ship and further in from muted bays we watch a swallow's song on console wing while blending smiles to film a largesse of wheat and green we take to watching surf and walks in furry lanes soak in the waves that age an ashen stencil mark in grotto rock we buckle hats, just the four of us then ride in it as bodies do... Copyright © Helen Hagemann 2000