The ice-night has softened
and snow falls.
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The ghosts of us,
(with hot coffee in expensive cups)
look beyond the breakers
to the line between sea and sky,
between paint daubed
and the slow, elegant dance
of a BMX bike.
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There was that moment. This one. Others.
Floating like feathers.
Making their mark.
Wingbeats in the wind.
Tyre tracks in snow.
Snow angels in sand.
