Orakei
the grassy harbour, a hill above the bay,
where we sit listening on our bench
built by strange rhythms, ocean madrigals,
birds and traffic noise, shrinking ships
moved about by childish whim and cardboard sticks.
out of reach now, the sun dribbles sleepily,
they say in winter, she comes right in
scraping under trees and balconies,
blinding old men with painting sticks,
leaving others less amused in noisy motorcades
coming up the hill, changing down and leaning steadily,
unaware of smelly pipes lined out across the water,
even sky canoes overshadowed by uneven strokes.
Tides pass out, taking with them reflections,
cars and grand houses, rippling in half light
diminishing in the deep mud where we saw
the faces of the dead Mayan kings, masked
in gold, watching our progress as we swam for the last
steering clear of jellyfish and nameless murk.
