by Pat Saunders

Our little corner of the world
is what we called it.
We liked to believe
no one but us knew about it.
Our annual pilgrimage:
utes and Sandmans
boards in the back
polished, primed, ready to go.

Trailing through windswept dunes
us and our boards
a row of t’s
anticipation rising
curling, swirling, unfurling
like the waves awaiting us.
Expectation building with the approaching storm front
charcoal clouds like boulders
barrel towards us
hard heavy drops
lightning bolts
a killer swell.

We knew we were close
when ancient timber poked the sky
wind-blown, higgledy-piggledy
barely standing
held together
by wire and rusted star pickets.

We clipped our keys to the wire
with long discarded
forgotten ones
we never spoke of.