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dry land and treasure.

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dry land and treasure.

I lie and think about the ships 
that came to Port Elizabeth,
they brought my seeds here,
from Australia, Scotland and Netherlands,
Sailors, outlaws and a noble clan,
these are my liner travelers.

you come home, so tired –my sweet love,
go to sleep, while my thoughts are driftwood.

I look across our elevated view,
to the lights in Macassar where your lineage
spilled onto those beaches and your seeds were strewn
from a noble Kramat,
fisherman, tradesman, slaves and local strands of bushmen
this your design and direction.

I check on our sons, touch soft heads,
stroke their coppery skin, so unlike mine not quite yours
two sleeping, pouting golden treasures,
from the salvage of two dissimilar vessels along a familiar coastal strip.

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