The ice-night has softened
and snow falls.
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.
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.
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