By Victor Billot

Light breaking dull steel, then glaucous,

soft and low, shadowed. On the edge

of deep cold water, people gather,

tents scattered between trees. Beatboxes pump.

Utes emblazoned with logos, aspirations

measured against the weight of millennia,

mountains thrown up by the collision of continents.

Young husbands and wives, stunned at how

life has got away, children swarming.

Summer’s dream, dry grass and blue stone

of the inland country. In the background

an inescapable hum of running against the clock,

of renovations and GST.

Another beer from the mini fridge.

Talk floats on the mild breeze, crypto,

the Government, time to open to the world.

Tomorrow the aluminium launch
will travel across an infinite silver plain.

Beneath fathoms, glacial time

takes form in minute vortices

of crystal purity.