Ocean Beach, Whangarei Heads
When I consider how I sit without shoes
Waiting for a green light to call my name
Or the moths wings parachutes that feign
To move my skin and bones within an inch of the blues
I know that make-mad weather’s not changing my muse
And the shallow-pitched breeze is set to complain
That the tambourine is wetted by a hurricane
For electric grace will ignite my hooves.
Twelve bars of West Coast wind calls for company
In dragging feet with no place to go
Driving whispers of summer down the cloud.
The women will holler in loose harmony
The men will wail and flinch at the low
Everybody moves ain’t nobody chooses the head thus bowed.
© Paula Green