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Handover
 
There is a profound change taking place.
The sun, pink from the exercise of the day
is waning. Exhausted, ready to dip into the horizon.
Just me and thirty-odd sea birds perched
on matchlegs stare out at the bleeding sky.
Behind us the moon, a perfect tissue circle
is beginning to rise. It is the handover
between seperated parents. The child -
hula-hooping - doesn’t notice her pink suitcase
moved between cars, or the quiet words
as they watch her hips rhythmically beating,
keeping the spin in balance.
They exchange practicalities, simple messages.
The base of the sun fizzes orange into the sea.
Birds stand till the final moment
in this tiniest of ceremonies.
And the handover is complete, the grass
will loose its redness, the sea will start to shuffle
as the moon, whitening in the purple sky
climbs up through the gears.
 
 
 
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