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Looking across the harbour from Goat Island, which is apparently the name given to Anderson’s Bay by the early European settlers.
A new year, like a fresh clean page. Reflections lingering from the year just past. Nothing magical, just a measurement.
Back into walking the hood. Feels good. Especially at dusk – or if you like the more romantic term; twilight.
Puddly playing field. Sky reflected in water on earth in the shape of the South Island. After a day of rain.
Dusky bird on toetoe stalk. The smell of algae.
A piper of some description (pied oyster catcher? Stilt?)
The Bird Roost getting put to good use by gulls, shags and spoon bills – the latter of which always put me in mind of someone reading a newspaper. Something to do with the stoop of the shoulders and the close attention to what’s in front of their noses.
Then back home to the garden and old kettles. 
11th Letter In 