The tide thunders 
and lays down like broken courage. 

Shingle is stained with seaweed, 
Fantastic sea-cut driftwood, 
Pulpy matter of summer picnics, 
A decayed seabird. 

Witness the rusting industry of fishermen 
Who smoke in the gossip of snugs now. 
I smell them reminisce, 

These municipal monuments 
That trawl in a lingering tourist at nightfall. 

See the woman wrapped in fog 
Who waits for the cry of the town clock, 
For the bus to the bright centre of things. 

Four generations ago 
Her ancestors edged along the blustery vein of this harbour 
Which was so like, but not home. 

Bogged to their waists in tussock, swamp, wilderness, 
They struck at our land. The autumn sunshine was chill. 
We bear grudges. 

A goods wagon grinds across the points, 
Plunges into the cutting behind First Church 

As the iron mandibles of the container hoist 
Cast their insect shadow into Main Street. 

At the breakwater the Southern Ocean rumbles. 
Headlands shove at a swell 
Which remembers no history. 

The town stills. But we stir, 
The dispossessed chiefs and masters, 
Gruff, like thistles in the wind. 
 

  
  © 2000