NEW POEM
A winter's tale
The morning starts out sickly blue
And drifts into gunmetal grey.
When I reach Marine Parade
The sea seems dull, indifferent,
And very cold. Many have died
Within minutes in these waters
That stretch out to Cook Strait
Across to the top of the South Island,
Which on a clear day appears
As if it is a mythical archipelago.
But today a ghostly mist obscures
Even the relatively close Mana Island,
And Kapiti Island is only a hint
Of itself. The air is damp and chilly,
And I button my coat up to the neck.
I, a man on the cusp of sixty,
Going nowhere in particular,
Just walking, happy enough to be
Alive with an almost quiet mind.
(Every man is his own religion,
Cochrane said.) I linger at the spot
Where I once encountered a seal,
A little fur seal with big brown eyes.
I could have reached out and touched it.
We looked at each other without fear,
Conversed, if you will, across species.
After time suspended the wee mammal
Slipped from rock to sea, swam awhile,
Turned back and gazed, I swear,
With eyes that encompassed eternity.
It's summer on another coast.
In Los Angeles the world-weary
Michael Jackson is rehearsing
His moon walk. Yes, poor Jacko,
That sickly talented 50-year-old boy,
Is once again cranking up his act.
He's sold out, sold out in Europe.
But Michael's heart is about to seize.
O Michael, O Michael, rest in peace. |
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