All these hills, Bay of Islands

It’s not the moment, I rest.

Alongside the bays of the inlet

Bench warmed by the rays of afternoon sun.

I choose this as a place to reflect

Beat down, beat down, oh warm one.

The winds carry and blow all that it knows,

messages carry

from banks to houses nestled on the foreshore.

Peace it would be

if it was not for an electric blower

a resident decided to turn on just now,

just for me.

I guess they want to be like the gust,

Winds, who have not stopped swirling

So many days, says the locals, it seems.

Messages would be clear,

but this Aussie girl just can’t hear

It could be the disorientation

of the endless hills on this bike trip

Exhausted by the uphill

Thrilled by the downfall.

The opposite of what we know.

Or  perhaps it’s the blower, wanting to be the wind.

Gratitude to the neighbour who came to chat to him,

to Mr Blower from down the lane near the inlet bay

Where I rest in the rays

All I can hear know is the slapping of tiny waves

Alongside the inlet of this bay.

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