TROUT   [5]

Thomas Mitchell
 
Whangaparoa is a Bay of Whales

 
  Parking behind the shadow of a tree at Te Haruhi Bay we thaw out from the long winter with our picnic basket and rug spread out on the ground surrounded by birds of all kinds including a sleepy peahen who sits beside us within cooking distance but is left in peace because we are full after our feast and walk unsteadily but well anchored along the beach and up the hill where a fresh wind takes the salt from our heads and pushes us till we get to the top and look out at all the islands and take time to breathe.
 
Tomorrow we will be back at work and only our skins will remember that we were at the beach and enjoyed ourselves eating ice-creams while we wandered around the new buildings at Gulf  Harbour watching the fish jumping not believing it possible but seeing and remembering to lick faster to avoid losing our treats to the sun now casting its own shadow across the car away from the tree at Te Haruhi Bay where I imagined I saw a shipwreck washed at by the sea like the castles I once built in the summers of my childhood. 


 
  © 1998 

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