The sky was overcast, and choppy white water rollicked across the treacherous bar. There was a quietness about the beach. The bittou bush, usually buzzing with life, was bee-less. The wattle buds still bulged green. And then the sun came out. The river was spangled once more, and the basalt breakwater sparkled with crystals. An occasional bather braved the chilly water, turning open-armed to the sun, and a single head swam across the bay. Birds in the littoral forest were as noisy as ever, as we read our first drafts in turn around the table. In contrast to the meditative silence of the ginko, this is always a time for involvement and laughter. And then came lunch. Any poet wishing to partake of these delights would be welcomed to join us at the Spring ginko in October.

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