Around the curve Mt Egmont rises
in all its concrete majesty, flaking snow
and blue forest. A pale faced
dark haired mother blows smoke
across her baby. A small ratty dog
tied to a buggy, standing still.
In this very sleepy place are those
who want to save the world; east of the river
my friend in his shoebox flat
with his Gold-Laced Wyan Dot chicken
with his rock ’n’ roll disillusionment
with his flamboyant pumpkin vines
and a paint colour he has mixed himself.
Around the curve No. 3 line
winds out to Okoia. O escape.
When I was growing up here
I used to dream of the very middle
of nowhere. Of waterways deep
in the forested hills
with names like Tea Creek.
Girls in identical shoes walk
the pavement at an identical loss.
The tickle of cabbage tree leaves.
The flowering gum. O time.
In this soporific state are those
who have been dead for decades.
Against a yellow backdrop Robert Nesta
peers over a concrete block fence
with his halo of dreadlocks. The pitch
of a state house roof. The palette
of orange crustose lichens. Twists
of stomach, crawling of bowels.
The sag of powerlines. The underfoot pop
of Moreton Bay figs.
O swimming pool of sorrows.
O stomach of pies.
By Airini Beautrais
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 New Zealand License.
