BY LISE DAY
The cottage takes off its summer garb
of drying towels, wind surfer sails
slung carelessly at open doors and windows.
Turns its back to the sun, puts on its winter look.
We rise late
when the sunbird circus starts
in the dawn-lit aloes, tiny acrobats
hanging on each nectared trumpet.
A creeping tide pushes our solitary canoe
to the river mouth, the water’s dark
with lazy swirls, deeply matted sedge.
Six flamingos wrapped in the noon haze
stand, peg-legged, staring out to sea.
The evening floods the river silver
we light the fire, pour the wine, play
childhood games, pick up sticks and scrabble
as the moon drags the water out
leaving the sand spit cold and bare.