A long walk

Rain painted fence posts black,
a long line stretching to the horizon,
one of the sun's arms, tarnished.

An unappealing streak on the land,
the line is a parallel limb
to the washed out dirt track
where boots and camouflage khaki walk
to war.

Ever diminishing circles

I watch as he wanders in circles,
ever diminishing circles
searching for the good
he knows he carries inside
his reddened heart.

He finds a speck here
as he glimpses an angel,
chops wood for his mother
a good deed
outstripped by the next bad

one. Whiskey in hand
foot on brass bar,
eyes on guard, looking
for that sleek slim model,
refined and wanting. He can't help

but be dragged along
on the scent of her,
on the untouchable demeanour,
slightly lifted chin,
eyes that brush his forehead.

She's forgotten his name,
has no wish to recall it.

He remembers every detail
the smoothness of her skin,
her talk. He won't go there again.

Not without another whiskey.

A Peaceful Sun

I watch the sky
anxious for a coating of blue
to wrap my land,
the green fields of New Zealand,
to pull colours from the sun
let them settle in the trees,
the last of Summer's rainbows.
I imagine the sand of Iraq
the yellow, the orange.
It is as if Fall will never end,
as if the blackened graveyard
of trees will never be laid to rest,
will never be culled
to carry our soldiers back
to a peaceful sun.

Makarora (gold panning and greenstone mining)

The booted feet of a thousand men marked the route from east to west, crossing barren mountains, breaking rock to build the tracks that carried gold and greenstone, carried passengers and supplies. Their footprints remain, buried under the sealed-in stone of today, their axes left history embedded in the rock. If we listen carefully to the spring melt of mountain water, we will hear the collapse of villages when the raped rivers rebelled.

Facing the Truth

I want snow
and all there is,
are brown, barren mountains
unable to shed rivers
of tears for their loss of white.

I will amble among them,
the naked lands,
look to their peaks
for the answers I seek.

Their stark replies
will not hide
wayward thoughts.

Their scarred facades
will not mask
the blunt truth.

I will unwrap the rock,
chisel my future
on its face.

A gift

There is a calm at dawn,
a silent assessment of time
within place, lifting with the mists
that fade when the sun
warms the land.

Peace is reflected
in the small ripples of a pond.
It is heard in the call of the heron
and carried in the valley of the fingerprint
along the path of the sun.

There is a oneness between land and soul
that manifests itself in the gifts
we share,
in the beauty we share,
in the life we live.


Illustration by James Newman, Photographer

Caught in the path
of a streetlamp,
my blue shadow
races ahead.

A Last Stand

Just the tops of trees are swaying,
painting the sky autumn blue.
They add in clouds
as if painting by numbers,
lay a streak of grey on the green ground -
a heron hunting dinner morsels,
his long slim neck a third leg,
helping keep his body balanced above.

It is the turn of trees
to flare in anger,
to change from their summer calming greens
to take on the orange, red and yellow,
a fiery last stand while their leaves
chatter of the season passed.

Morning

The sun has risen, yet
the lamp brings more golden glow.
Through the wintered-shut window
I watch trees brush the sky silver,
see the birds
but cannot beak-read their words.

The grass looks suddenly longer,
as if during the night
angels had teased it,
untangled it
from its morning bed-hair state.

Daisies continue to grow
undeterred by midnight's downpour
and the ginger cat jumps up on the windowsill
irate at the late pause of breakfast.

Winter, clocked

God touched me there,
at the top of the mountain
while I sat on a rock, watching
the sun turn the snow into diamonds
at my feet.

He touched me. Gave me sight
so I could look across the country
at another mountain
dressed in white gown and diamonds.

I remember realising
that vision was not only what I could see
around me,
it was also internal,
as if the winter cloak I wore
kept it inside,
hid some sights that only I knew.

North v South

Colour for you is underfoot.
Bluebonnets,
painted Indian brushes,
lush grass, remnants
of winter's soot.

For me, it's above.
In that turning before death,
Leaves grasp the sun,
clutch colour close -
tree-rainbows of love.

Enduring Winter

There are wildflowers all over my bed,
outside, the clouds cry with their loss.

They were plucked from the ground,
planted in cotton - colour stolen
from outdoors, carried in
and scattered.

They almost writhe under the light.
Sacred rites of the storm scream
beyond the window. Forgotten
and in flagrant, the blooms lay
all over my bed.

There's always hope

Every new year coal comes in the door
and luck walks out.
Luck is meant to stay

my grandmother swore
on the family bible that it would,
but some perverse bending
steers it away,
scuttling down a road
I've grown tired of walking.

I remember once, when luck went,
when my brother left home
to join some ragged crew
that believed flowers
really did grow up damp, peeling wallpaper
and that smoking pot cured all ills.

I wondered then, if there was a point
to the tradition,
to the carrying of coal,
when famine and festering were prevalent.

Hope always underscored
the last word.

Me as a Memory

I think if I were looking for re-incarnation
I would come back as a dried flower
one that could be sat in a copper vase,
or perhaps plain plastic as copper
would likely be stolen, sat on the front edge
of a grave. I could see the mourners,
detect the true depth of sorrow
that some may carry, detect the fake.
I would become colourless, a mottled grey
eventually, that would blend in with headstones
and weathered concrete that only lichen
caress. I would watch you closely,
and determine how deep you feel
the passing, of friends, lovers, me
even though I know I am merely a momentary
lapse in your life. Perhaps
as a dried flower you would give me more attention
a glance at least, a tear, perhaps
you would keep me as a memory then.

Road Trip - Booking

Maybe I'll book in advance
for the renowned beauty
of the Chateau, where mountains
fill glass walls and sunsets
turn snow caps to gold, maybe

I'll take my chances
and stop en route
at a hotel, avoiding
the teal carpet and vinyl kitchen
brigade that are off the beaten track,
up lampless side streets
were there is little traffic
and a dozen homeless street walkers
sniffing glue and living dreams.

Two things are for sure,
the food will be cheaper
on sage green plates
and mismatched utensils
than on mahogany
and cream carpet, and

I can't wear satin
and pearls at a backpackers,
nor stoned denim and sandals
at the Chateau.

A miscarriage of justice

Twenty years ago today
I lost you, barely
a speck within my womb
aborted spontaneously
the doctor said,
while nasty images ravaged my mind.
All I wanted was to keep you safe
to nurture you and when you were ready
to hold you in my arms.
Why couldn't you wait?

Listen

If I listen carefully
I can hear the clouds race across the sky,
I can hear the parched dirt crack
as it waits for autumn rain,
and I can hear the liquid amber leaves
chatter of falling,
of their slow and brilliant death.
I can feel the excitement of grass
as it quivers in anticipation of the earth's cooling,
I can feel the arch of cobbles
as they rise up to greet the last days of heat,
and the sun on my back that says goodbye
in advance.

There are white wings in my garden
holding tight until age
times their release
allows them to fly,
to capture the breeze
that will carry them far away
on a day when the sun
catches their intent
waves them on with warmed fingertips
and watches them settle
to sew,
to seed,
to grow.

Looking Forward

Perhaps the cicada is my totem,
my icon I should seek each mid-summer
month. Perhaps I should surrender
to its call, let it take my mind
and allow it to lead my thoughts
until the falling of leaves
lays a softness over my path
and the silence of the cicada
in the garden deafens the onslaught
of winter's death.

White Notes

White clouds traverse
the sky, moving slowly
as if they were white notes
sliding along the pavement
under a light morning breeze.
Notes to and from lovers
that tell of longing
and leave the taste
of missing you in the spaces
between creases. They'll fold
when they reach the end of the road,
pass beyond the horizon
to drop away from the life
of here and now leaving blue
as a reminder
of what might have been.