Poetry by E.A Gleeson

This sky we share Just-built houses  stretch upwards lunging at ocean views  angling out inlanders blocking older shacks  shading neighbouring yards. For six weeks  holiday-makers hang out  on their decks to die for.  For the other forty-six weeks,  these shrines tower  in blue silence.  Worst storm ever On Monday morning, locals stand like sentinels  watching Curdie’s River explode. It carves its way  through the sand bar, slices ...

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