throbs in beauty.
I bring it nothing, just
what it wanted for Christmas.
The island cares, sometimes
fails miserably stealing from itself.
Beaten up, its fists are raw from self-harm.
Then it wakes up naked & whole again.
This place is old but has danced all night.
It forgives the minor scars.
Liturgies of passion. 200 homes, more stories.
Each is a revelation, set aside for a moment.
The humility of radiance, a casual pillage
from our favourite kookaburra, then a cup of tea.