All the kids say there’s nothing
here, no future. They wait
for escape, their breath
held, muscles tense, ready
to spring like racehorses
from a gate.  

But it takes leaving to see
a place clearly,
weathering and time.
One day they’ll long for home,
find themselves missing
the way marram grass pokes
straight up through sand,
the scorch of a bare foot
descending a dune.

Maybe they’ll want for the dark
waves churning
jagged shards of glass
in the surf, broken bits
bound to return, washed
ashore once again, this time,
with all their edges smooth.