My youngest child is dancing
with the happiness of being awake.
His warm limbs clamber on me
as he sucks on a bottle of milk.
We are at the beach early
to watch for whales at low tide,
their spouts blowing when they travel
together as a family in line.
My little one paddles
in the shallow water looking for fish,
I am overwhelmed
with panic and love.

Collecting plastic along the swash
line requires a noble love.
I’m shaking a strainer to remove
debris and spill sand in its wake
while my boy decorates
a castle with tiny red caps from soy fish,
cable ties from events,
bubble stickers, blue caps off milk.
Those tiny soy fish,
so easy to consume, create a deadline
for the real fins, gills and scales
swimming against the tide.

He picks up tile guides
from building sites that fill the tide

washed from bathroom renovations

to houses we love to love
down stormwater drains we hate
until we march the swash line
for our morning beach walk.
We are barely awake
from our perfect life’s dream

in this land of honey and milk.

We’ve forgotten that the stormwater

feeds the fish.

A five pointed bubble sticker
is no match for a starfish

though the glitter on these party favours

creeps across the tide
like a satellite excluded from the night

sky’s trail of milk.
We might think they mimic
the ancient stars we love,
but we can’t blame a satellite
for fading stars left in its wake.
Better to be wishing we had not cast light
into the skyline.