Auckland Poetry

Winner & Loser

Cycling along a pathway in a stony, dry bush
landscape I saw a hawk lose its kill, a sparrow,
the unfortunate fell in front of me, alive but
badly wounded. While the hawk sat on a tree,
an almond tree that had no business growing
here and it showed no one had tended to this
domestic plant years.

This bit of violence was none of my concern
I shouldn’t have picked it up the sparrow, but
now that I felt its nervous little heart beating
in my palm and its blood dripping on my hand,
it was hard to let go. I put nature’s victim on
a big boulder, sat still on my bike till the hawk
swooped and reclaimed its quarry

Flight of a Bird

A heron flew low across the motorway, alas too low,
it collided with an ice-cream van that was on its way
to a suburban school to sell its freezing and delicious
products, it broke a wing, but managed to get on to
the hard shoulder of the road. A driver, in an apple
green jaguar came speeding along, swerved and tried
to kill the bird, didn’t quite make it though, but now
the heron had two broken wings; confused and in pain
it crawled back on to the road. In the afternoon only
a few soft feathers drifted aimlessly on the left bank of
this manmade river of blood and loss.

The Home Turf.

The enclosure’s gate was left open and led by
a tall, black stallion, a natural leader, the horses
escaped and soon galloped to the freedom of
open land. When tired they settled down, grazed
or just enjoyed the day. They were not wild and
when the light faded, on this great land that
casts no shadow, the timid horses thought of
the safety of the ranch, got restless and scraped
hooves on the ground and blowing through their
nostrils. Reluctantly their leader began trotting
back, and as the day became evening the flock
was in the coral they knew; the gate was firmly
shut behind them, as it will be tomorrow and
the days thereafter.

Morning and the Mythical.

On the hazy field a white stallion, with steam
rising from its back, was grazing and I thought
of the lady who used to ride naked through
the night. The horse seeing me cycling slowly
on the village sandy lane came to the fence
neighed softly and looked endearing.

I stopped spoke to it till it began grazing, but
when I tried to leave it neighed again didn’t
want to be alone. A man was letting sheep, on
to the field, eighty-five damp wooly backs,
(counted them and nearly fell asleep,) I could
leave now my presence was no longer needed.

The Struggle

I have struggled for decades not to sink into
the morass of years, had been holding on to
a branch of the tree of learning, but when
asleep I lost the grip and now see the underside
of its leaves, they are pale and tells me that
learning gives yarning and ambitions for
a wider horizon, but without education, a title
that tells us who we are, we will continue work
as garage hands, or peel potatoes in a café.
It’s easy to let go slip into old age, to forget
and to be forgotten by the world