(Wordle word of the morning)

Double o vowels, a long, interesting sound

with the consonant ‘l’ as a flourishing finish

to drool is to savour perhaps, to desire

babies drool and we wipe their cute chins

an old man drools, and we see his decline

like spit when a friend spoke during Covid

sunlight lit their spit as it flew towards

you, sparkling, dangerous alive yet deathly

so that we dodged even while fascinated

that this flying drool existed, so vivid

illuminated, lively and terrifying hitherto

unnoticed and now possibly fatal

A poet should drool perhaps on each chosen

word, or wish to inspire a drool from a reader

the long double o sound with an l to land it

let’s drool

(Winter Swimming)

So you lovely ocean at my doorstep
a bathtub almost full then half full
tepid, warm and freezing

my blood pressure rises and falls
at whim sending my head spinning
and a cold shower is but a bitter
consolation

I want to swim in you my dear friend
the sea
I check my land, air, water app for the
key
If it's red, I must not swim E.coli lurks
in the wake of a storm
But orange is just a warning, like don't
swallow the sea just swim in me 
and I do

I wallow, kick, swim, lie back and adore
stand, watch through waves, admire 
the sea floor, random starfish, seaweed
I adorn myself with kelp bulbs, imagine
sharks but briefly, watch the sun rise
above the pines

watch the ferry leave, see latecomers
running, coats on
unaware I'm there, neck deep or floating
sometimes kicking vigorously
dodging waves if it's an orange day my
mouth closed
or practising my newly learned freestyle
face down

At age 5 I would shiver out of the water
standing in hot sand, teeth chattering
covered in goosebumps, towel around
my shoulders, licking an ice-cream
then giddy and sick on the sea-saw

At 73, emboldened by you, my darling sea
fearlessly entering you, unfazed by your
freezing arms, blood rushing to greet you

all my goosebumps gone

It was the 70’s sort of mid-way or thereabouts
Auckland coming of age, Antoines & Clichy
Ad Agency reps being wooed all over town
wine for a full-colour triple-page spread

Rick was his name, a groovy photographer
fresh from the Outback, his camera slung
carelessly across his neck, the strap festooned
with luggage labels like a Pacifika lei

He wore these labels like a pro and I guess he was
they flew him to Huka Lodge with some journos
put him up where Zane Grey once slept some
rustic extravagance (I did the expenses)

The journos caught trout at Lake Taupo
doing the sums, it seemed viable they’d
paid a scuba diver to watch out for them
feeding their fishing lines for the story

It was a great story, Muldoon and some sheep
on the front cover of the South Pacific issue
and some incorrect stats about Maori infant
mortality – hey, they only had three days and

hey they sold a triple-page full-colour spread
to the likes of Philip Morris – it’s a while ago now
I can’t be sure but mostly back then it was
tobacco companies funding TIME MAGAZINE

souls sold over flash white tablecloths
mostly men in suits possibly French wines
we girls in the back office doing the sums
typing up the invitations making reservations

Time has moved on and now we have Casey
bringing back the good old days
(a ciggie with your lunch anyone …)