A lone runner cuts the coastal air,
feet drumming a narrow ribbon of path
that threads through salt-bleached grass
and wind-shaped shrubs.
Above, the Warrnambool sky hangs low and pale,
clouds rolling in from the Southern Ocean,
heavy with stories of tides and storms.
The breeze tastes faintly of brine.
Each stride is a small defiance
against the pull of stillness,
arms swinging like pendulums
keeping time with the heartbeat of the town.
Behind him, the world softens into blur:
picnic tables, distant figures,
trees leaning inland from years of gales.
Ahead, the track curves out of sight.
Gulls wheel somewhere beyond the dunes,
and the unseen surf keeps its thunderous rhythm.
He runs not from, but into the wind,
into the grey light, into the day.
On this edge of land and water,
movement is warmth, breath is steam,
and the body becomes a compass
pointing forward along the coast.
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