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Change of Tide at Mission Beach Bridge
The last small wave is hurried through,
drawn splashing and struggling in between the walls of the channel,
snatched from the whole blue sea
and tossed without ceremony upon the shallow, widening bay.
And then the one in charge of tides, of storms, of lonely sand spits and lost seagulls
blows a soothing breath
or smiles commandingly
or takes the palms of his hands and presses the water out flat
and holds it there, with both arms around,
as one might hold a platter of cream
until there is no fear of spilling any of it.
The green bay water is so still
that a feather from a mud hen's wing makes circles,
as a stone makes circles in a mountain lake.