NB 5.

Repetition With.

sky the colour of an eye

  sea the colour of a broken promise

sand the colour of sand

  bird the colour of a dropped glove.


clouds of warm steam



  buoy the colour of happiness

boat the colour of gravy

  rocks the colour of a bad temper

reef the colour of broken teeth


  sea and be seen



  shells the colour of bone

wood the colour of a lost dog

  trees the colour of a wish

earth the colour of ash


  to have been.

NB 4.

Murder.

It's a townies idea of a wilderness

A gate and a track you can drive a truck down

Navigated engineered and dammed


Except in spring when the kowhai forest flowers

Chrome yellow under cobalt blue

And flocks of tui wheel and rattle

Drunk on nectar.


Quiet compared to Karanga a Hape road

Where big cars boom and rattle

And the flock are drunk on rum and party

Under cadmium light


One with a dam in his head, cutting the flow

Of love producing an issue, still borne.

A jigsaw puzzle


Solved by disposal, beyond the light

In the tangle of supple jack and bush lawyer

Watched by the owl.


Exposed by the dawn to no one

Turning sweet nature into forbidden land

Waiting for redemption.

NB3

NB2. (Harakeke, Ti, Manuka)

Field Notes.

The sky caught in the ruts of the reef

Black shag drying on a shipwrecked tree trunk

Prehistoric cry of herons.



Small wooden footbridge over creek

Carving in the clay

Pool to rill to pool to fall


Monument.

Sun lighting the forest like a spoon

Cutting the top off an egg



Mushroom flesh over wet green moss

Thin muscular lancewood with insect fingers

Low sun on a short day



The luxury of the plateau

Highlit textures and saturated colour

Sacred niche in the forest



The indifference of the far off traffic.

Note Book 1. (NB1.)

Bronze over stone.

The labour of Sisyphus once,

To roll the boulder to the start of the loop track

With bronze plaque fixed,

To commemorate the jubilee of five score.

Too long for one lifetime just,

Senile, incontinent and orphaned.



But sap young for history

A hundred years of stone and

Little changes but the sky.

Aotea, Kamo.

Ruru. (Little Owl)

Bright white room with a view

Not of the Duomo

But of the bush, kanuka and the rest.


High and dry and filled with enlightenment,


Looking to the dark corridors of the forest.

That shelters the little knowing owl

Who calls her name over until exasperated

Tears the night with a cry for understanding.

Summer Counting II.

From The Coast.

Away from the coastal, up the track by the waterfall

Sand turns to clay and fern and soon turns to tea tree.

And wilding pine, sent to civilise.

A welcoming fantail tells its story of death, ignored.


At the corner, the orange clay veined with red,

The slick steps blurred by the rain

Best to turn to avoid the treachery of the land.

Run to the crest of the ridge, cut across by the metalled road

And drop down again from the plateau to the treasure.


Where rooty track abruptly becomes grip tread board walk,

Running low over sluggish water.

Geometric fern and whip reed moire

Build architecture for shy birds.


Along and down through the doughnut car park,

Past the graffiti trees and the changing huts

To the picnic tables in the shadows.

0612.

Solstice.

The last time I was here I stumbled through the sweating bush,

Down to the track behind the huts.

All luminous blue green radiance, with the sea inviting.

I met the others in the scarlet shade of a flowering tree

Where I dog dropped and lay listening to the splash of the seas

And the beat of my heart.



That summer is over and the rough stumble has turned

To a tight stroll along the flat parade.

The trees, bee and bird free, shake in the cold South wind,

The wind that scuds a stony cloud that is too mean to rain.

Low against corrugated water, surly from neglect.



Small fire of twigs and seaweed lit before dawn

To warm the bones after the longest night,

And an offering of food on a toy raft

To appease the sea gods.

0207.

Big Muddy.

The birds in the big old pohutakawa give company in the quiet.

The quiet of the lowest tide, framed by a thin bank of bone white shells

Pushed and raked by currents gone, revealing the cold grey mud.


Kingfisher halcyon, queen cormorant, tui bishop, oystercatcher and gull.

Going about their arcane games with note and cry.


Steady crop smoke from the far shore of the harbour signals the seasons end,

Mudstone strata of ochre and burnt orange show a different degree of timekeeping,

Settled and layered and born up from the soft reef,

To rudely display the muddy calendar of tides past.


Norfolk tree and rubble reef around the boat ramp,

Engine block moorings and rope wrapped tyres for the old buoys,

Clear yellow sunlight dropped in the barbecue cage.

0507.

Little Muddy.

In the furthest corner of what I can see

There is a post, perpendicular to the

Grey green smoke blue horizon.

A lone pile set in mud to guide the sailor

To the safe chanel.

The deep trench in the stingray shallows

Filled with beasts and fear and salvation.

Don't capsize.