December collects all signs we are here to see. Names and lovehearts gouged in sand, erased by tide. Crinkled kelp blacks tawny sky-mirrors. Log burnt by bonfire or bushfire stands foursquare in the wind. Clusters of twig, bark, feather, glass and shell dry against embankments, their sources lost over months. Dog paws toe, flip-flops flatten, seagulls starprint, hands nought-and-cross with sticks the perfect wet surface semi-sheened with sun. Tiny limpets unstuck from reef dot the undulations, soon to do back the way they came, by racing froth. Old stone bowls attached to platforms offer up salt when the surf’s in.