When you arrive
at this coast
of long blue waves and black rocks
take in if you can
the shore and horizon where Hotere began —
surf-casters biding their time by the tide
kids on quad bikes hooning about between dunes
a parking car overtaken by its own dust-cloud plume
a bach with its window open to the ozone out west
a horse with its head between a girl's skimpy breasts
a dog chasing a stick thrown into the shallows
a father rescuing his daughter from the undertow
kūtai gatherers waist-deep beside a reef
a camperwagon with its awning overlooking the beach
seagull-tilted wave eclipse and suddenly
Kupe's sail
flying in through the surf.
