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Margaret Moores


Dolphins leap in the bay as dawn breaks over the Coromandel. I pause to watch
their dark muscled shapes in the waves until the sun becomes an incandescent
flare and a blinding afterglow burns orange and green behind my eyes. In the quiet
morning streets, I push my body on through air like cooling water until the colours
recede and I can see again; unlike my mother, who believing she had sunstrike,
stopped her car and waited while a blurring hole formed in the macula of one eye.
All summer she noted browned grass on the street berms, dull leaves on trees
and talked of drought as colours began to melt away. When I call to describe

the dolphins, she reminds me to look after my eyes. Becalmed behind wooden fences,
overlooked by curtained windows in slowly fading suburbia, she mourns for the sea.


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