we once made love,
on a shell and
shingle stone beach.
it was a cold,
uncomfortable affair,
of clacking, shifting.
a scratching, scrying game,
of hard, hurried, thrusting.
riding waves of tepid saltwalter
and banging, barging,
bruising ice beneath
our backs.

but we,
were new to love,
in need of intimacy
and at least,
there was no sand,

i remember, the next day
our backs and buttocks,
were pokmarked with bruises.
a karmic reminder of our
base human greed

the kookaburra's
shuffle, along
the power lines
like, wing-ed music,
they organise and reorganise
the day's riff.

darting down, to pick
a lizard morsel from
the earth,
recalibrates, the sound
of maniacal mirth.

shuffle down, shuffle down,
hop across, and shuffle up
swoop away, fly on in.
all, accompanied by
raucuos din.

then they settle and they
doze
beady eyes open in repose.
a pause in the clamour
of the day's beat.