Oamaru Tourism's Tidal Nightpiece On-Demand

(Body language for three piece band. Look Mum, this treacle's got bubbles in it.)

This repeats from horizon to horizon. Particles attract across indifferent waters. The elements of confusion are so obviously collision and fusion. Will them to explode, do you, or ask an easy union?

To the observer this is either a pointless pair or a measurable movement. Laws say you cannot see them all together, though you can have them both at once. Each is displaced out of own space, one into the other, though a harbour is Comfort's zone. All this is knowledge (see, here is a tree) and its application, expertise, is fruity.

Now they (one less than a trinity, cheap seats stuff) sense each other where each once was. Sense brings recognition and identity is constructed out of loss. The composite cools at this edge of union. Land, sea and sky radiate Something.

Something, which is called Something, sets into a scape, a lairscape or a sandscape, to be scorched in sunlight and cut down by the moon.

For the observer again (with respect, this in not You), mastering a pilot's tug, over and again, up and down a tedious estuary, there is only one story to be hung up in any language. For more clarity add the distortion of seagull gossip, dash of local colour. And now, You are here.

Reductionists develop the faces of clay slopes with smiles all the way to the harbour master's door. The pennies drop. Reduction is development, turning small towns into a flurry of points of light. A councillor is a pointillist (my Blackpool illumination: te-a-rooms). Smear the picture of the daughter bagging fish in kelp, with children near, without demanding agitated growth, within the seal's eye.

Recreate the conjunction of water and earth. This is a place of recreation, professing hobbies, dressing up. The visiting voice is a bare white knuckle pounding against its other silver fist. There are no sparks, but look out for spume from those who sibillate in the old tongue. Llandudno is a seaside town. Ecotourism is ecumenical from bank to bank. A harbour is brine in a barrel to an old dog. It's seven long years since I had quota.

Stillness here grips lightly, like thistle tips about a trapped finch. Don't move then. Think. Collect your thoughts on spikelets of anxiety among the old fermented grains. Red by gold birds flutter at the silo's torn doors. WhiskeY gongs the white carillon. So that if you have travelled a long way to find yourself at the gates of nowhere, see the bobbing wash and splutter. Feel the weak attraction. Welcome.

by Dafydd Coed-Isaf