by Veronica Troup

Our picnic rug once strewn across the spinifex
arms wrapped, melting skin
our footprints followed
the tiny yes of seagull tracks
our names scrawled deep in wet sand
did not spell n o t g o o d e n o u g h

Grey-gold the horizon hinges last light
firefly wings puppet she-oaks, I reprise
our promises broken
salted capillaries left in want
our yelled devotion leached
by children taxes no-time

My palm imprinted wild with basalt
cleansed by this dusky river-mouth
collecting seagrass, auger shell, limpet
all gone by morning
I stand, indecision a pretence
where would I go anyway

We still lace fingers in the night

• Hastings Point, NSW