It was the summer of splinters, 
of only four more sleeps, 
trying to teach a five-year-old 
what waiting meant. It rained, 
stopped, and then rained 
again. The days became quiet 
busy with silence. 
Family members fell away 
like sand-dunes in the wind, 
back towards computer screens, 
mobile phones, the stuff 
five-year-olds don’t have. 
Plenty of room for sand-castles 
on the beach today. 
Sometimes we’re home 
and sometimes we’re away. 


Winter has grown on us — the cool breeze 
no longer shocks and the birds carry on 
with their sunshine-fed song. Around 
their eyes are thin yellow orbs that seem there 
to contain, hold that avian pupil in place. 
It’s all a question of relativity, you say — 
the years felt so long as a child. 
But back then, a year was a quarter 
of your entire life. Now it’s a mere tilt 
of the head — something that’s a little bit more 
than nothing, a frame growing smaller 
as the days pull at the skin around your eyes. 
And yet the point remains the same — 
what will be will never be contained. 


Lynley Edmeades resides in Dunedin. She was once the winner of the Oraka Heights School cross-country competition.