Bougainvillea is Ballina, across the fence outside my door. A broken bird, scatter of silver – the wooden steps, and then the sudden immersion. The certainty of the plunge, as sheets of wet paper -flecked through with colours like damp sand on your fingers- emerge fully formed on mesh. The unspoken name, dalliances- secreted on scraps of folded paper -no siren call- just words written joyously with my big toe on sand for the tide to wash away. (I loved him then, my lover but he was no Johnny) Cultivating ashes, if I could catch that Shaws Bay mullet in my hands, mid- leap then I could stop time, right there, and hold those days aloft- a trophy of youth pinned fast.