Framed in the cabin’s small corner window
The mares graze in the morning’s soft glow
Oblivious to all but the short green grass and each other
Without sound they stay close, turning together
Last night’s southerly no longer buffets the cabbage tree
In this cropped corner of a seaside paddock patchwork
Stood slimly strong, it guards the dregs
Of the small pond shrunk by months of dryness
The frog croaks of December are forgotten in February
Fallen foul of hungry herons
or simply dwindled out of their depth
It’s still wide enough for stilts to need multiple strides
Of their skimpy backbent legs to step across
Just deep enough to dip their pointed bills
But how much longer will it cover their gristled, pointy feet without the rain?
In the next paddock, beige long-grassed,
A third mare wanders close to the boundary
Splitting the seemingly inseparable pair next door
In search of a morning greeting
In the window’s top half, far beyond them
Between the tree-carcassed, pebble-strewn beach
And the yellow cliffs clung with green creepers
A thin line of surf shoots the narrow gap between ocean and estuary
Watery white whirls spinning over the river bar
In an eager line of succession
The kettle thunders
Accompanying the cries of a clutch of oystercatchers
Sweeping noisily overhead
… and clicks off