The weather is a matter of cultural safety
for us white Englishmen
I talk about it with my father:
it's fine up here, Dad, not a breath of wind
(so rare for Wellington)
how's it with you?
Cloudy, he replies, and raining
wind from the south-west
I can't get the garden done.
In his voice is the gloomy assurance
that more is on the way
I talk about it with the barber
We agree it's
not such a bad day
for this time of the year
We're talking the prices of houses
I tell him I'll be a father come June
I don't tell him, the child will be born in winter
as the wind and the rain prowl outside
I don't tell him, we will carry the infant
back to our wooden house
shaken by the gale
I do say, I'll have to check the gutters
come spring.
Birds in the trees
fish in the river.
In the forest, silence;
foam and smoke over rapids.
Quiet in the lowlands.
In Elysian fields
shadows of evening
the last weary feet heading home.
Voices in darkness
shapes on the hillside:
the lion, the lamb
kissing long slow and hard.
Return to CONTENTS