PINNACLE LATE SUMMER
No one here, the light dissolving
in thickened air, the crow-black valley
rimmed with old fire
reds, and cars beaming
whitewash shafts.
Unsure feet on a fire trail bristling
with cut grass, crackling;
a mob of unsprung wallabies
take an old path
to a reedy pond;
sticks and shadow
make mind-snakes,
or just conceal aged bush animus.
A pace quickened,
a gate shut on a settling dark;
a living room waiting, people
and talk, television, whiff of tedium
in the air.
RETURNING TO THE OLD LONDON SCHOOL
Turning the corner of the leafy street
he remembers four decades ago, an ex-pat Australian boy,
just 14, dropped off by his mother in an unfamiliar uniform,
fighting tears, ears nervously attuned
to the strange London accents.
The gate is open but absent the smiling uniform tugging
scholastics in black with broad ribbons dropping from
their shoulders; that sartorial scrutiny undone
but crudely substituted by CCTV warnings
and anti-trespass signs.
He sees the unlovely 1970’s additions
grafted to the impractical faux Gothic,
the unsentimental hybrid pile blended in with
a common rust brick.
An intercom voice releases
the electric lock. He walks past
faded framed photographs and school glory
to meet a receptionist, Caribbean girl, friendly but,
child of her time, security-minded and suspicious.
He hands over as his bona fides the 1962 class photo
and points to the tall lad with the
broad jaw and lick of dark hair; the image
is swallowed in her distracted smile.
He supposes the grey-haired priest in the centre
who caused him so much pain is dead now.
The rules are, no one just strolls around
without permission of the bursar. So a wait
until bells ring and outside keen-eyed boys
in dark blazers mottle the sun-spilled yard. Teachers
in sports jackets bolt from common rooms gripping
bundles of books.
Time passes and he is told by the Jamaican that
the bursar is delayed indefinitely. The nice
dark face apologises and suggests an
impractical appointment tomorrow.
Feeling disappointed and a little silly,
he leaves, passing the large windows of the refectory,
massed boys talking and tucking into the common meal.
Perhaps, as he recalled, a fare of chewy beef and onion
in greasy gravy then a heavy suet jam roly poly?
U3A CLASS
The old and not so old,
that fascinating end
of their lives,
almost finished
but with no spirituality
in their limpid eyes
or wholesomeness
left over from youth,
no flesh grafting yet
to transcendence.
SPIDER
He squashes the sinister-looking spider
between two slippers as it shoots
down its gossamer thread;
the rain-washed morning sun outside blazing:
a little flake of karma settles,
cowardice over courage waiting for
some other day.
MAGPIE AT COOK GARDEN
While turning over the soil
the magpie grabs the grub,
while removing withered tomato plants
it snaps up a fallen caterpillar,
while stirring the compost,
it plucks the sleeping cricket.
It tips its head and looks
with a black twinkle, knows me,
not me, knows that man-the-gardener
means meal-for-magpie.
NZ CATS
When we are away
it’s always the cats
which bring us home.
Like the cute Burmese
number in Devonport
slinking out of the old
Victorian wooden house
for a chuckle under the chin.
Or the long-haired
marmalade one
in the Auckland
heritage house bidding
us goodbye and
swiping our legs.
My wife comments: “Every
damn international cat is friendly
except our cat at home.'
except our cat at home.'
