Just a continuous motion filled massing.
Grey clouds smother all horizons,
Hills swallowed in their lumbering trek.
Lone bird flies.
Messages in the sand speak of coldness to encroaching tides.
Light signals land,
Land where feet have stood,
Where ships harbour a grudge,
Where sense tries to work the future out of its isolated forecast.
I viewed a stretch of Tasman from atop a lookout and was stunned by the view. With thoughts of leaving New Zealand in my mind, I wondered how I could leave "all this" behind: These views of the moon cresting over hillsides, floating over the ocean, being veiled by cloudy nights. And then I realised: You have to live in it as well. I arrived here with no one else but myself, and living here isn't working. Sure, it's only been three months, but I have nothing connecting me here. Little interest in the tourist attractions, and an absence of much needed comfortable and engaging writing environment. Even if the last 3 months has given me more to write about than usual, there has been little productivity on the novel beyond planning. All the most recent writing I've done for scenes was written while in Invercargill with only some conversational text written prior to moving into this flat.
I was done with New Zealand not long after getting back to Invercargill. It's hard to keep your head above water in a world where opportunity always feels like it's meant for other people. I just did not have a hull strong enough to stop salty water leaking in.