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Towards Port Levy

Mark Pirie

For John

'High in those hills your name is forgotten.
But the legend lives on in the yachts
Ghosting to anchorage mud...'

- Denis Glover, 'Towards Banks Pensinsula'

1
The hills, browned with the end of
summer, the four of us travelling in

the car. Congenial company, poets
for once in harmony together. We talk

of literary pursuits, our own and others,
gossip on about the 'good and the bad',

what's happened and what might happen,
and (always) in the back of our minds

is the past, memories of those
before us: Mick Stimpson, Glover,

and others, closer, now passed away. We
mention our mothers (both) now dead,

and highlight the day, the 'beauty',
'remember it', I hear you say.

2
Further on, we drive down the hill to
Port Levy, a bird catches your eye.

I scour the countryside for detail:
a row of trees, sheep along the hills,

the children come out to play.
And then entering the harbour

in tranquillity, the sea a reflection of sky,
we walk to the graveside, our journey now

complete, and stay a while, recalling
the past, Glover's poem, and, of course,

the history, painted as ever on a single
gravestone. 'Remember it', you say. I do,

noting wryly Mick's grave, how it lies
there, 'forgotten', glinting at the sky.