On Kinley’s Lane, quince tree, wild blackberries, branches of feijoa reaching over a fence, fallen fruit.

What was the Welsh for ‘hedgehog’? That was what he wanted to know.

Rectangular, with corners cut off like an octagon, muddy brown shows through the cream exterior where the edges are chipped.

How many blows does it take to crack an egg?
Is a question I never expected to ask
If you don’t know, I should tell you, an egg
Is what they call the girl inside the male mask

The hue of brides, appliquéd dark with henna.
Citron’s acid curl, vernal blades between teeth.

I sell the postcard
of multi-coloured sheep
over and over again.

Name called.
Not mine.

Wasn’t I
here first?

I leave everything on shingle,
meet surf like a sibling,
crest over playful breakers
and chase the moon’s tail.

We launched, lovingly
into dark and silky water
unknown yet benign.