Down the track, brilliantly satisfying
mind-wheels, borrowings of pleasure
that spin chrome and sunlight glinting

from its centre. I am here, the axle,
the hub of a flooded estate, water up
and seagulls clustering like angels

around the lighthouse. Below ground, caves
glimmer their bold delicacies: cautious
and sumptuous, the drip-down, solvents

of flight. Out to sea, off the cape,
rainclouds adhere to the swell, and birds
join at the wings making light

where the sun is, should be. Soothed
despite the gale, waves smashing rough rocks
below the lookout, you stand firm

and seals gambol in pools of relative calm,
as if watching the birds perform
their rites of storm, instinct to fill the sky.