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The Business Ethic

for Hone

Thoughts range to the Whangamata rise
with its tree plucking eyes, a tad Goth
Austro-Kiwian alps spearing white
waves where sand bars stave the rave,

heading to ground, thinking of exotica
kissing deck, needles spread; our legs
trestle -- yeah, that stiff -- the odd patch
where the dirt sinks into pools, slides

that are slushy skids, wet tread.
One day this will get sucked out, a big pucker
and the ageing pohutukawas on the shoreline,
the toss between GRI or ripe pines

and tears from blinking to pinch
this corner, that bay, for resort chains,
will all go up the blow-hole, the last straw,
the big gurgler. A vestige of an Access scheme

is a lone bench beneath a black-necked
pohutukawa; it's a possum rip seesaw
the owners have just familiarised
with the white sand (hey bud!)

seen the cave which fills at high water
been briefed on a crack at the top where
the water would spit at them and between
nibbles are impressed by the cakey texture

the gullet shape the grotto
they admire the brown trickle
begin to think of giant trees and moas
they start licking their chops

agree it has a salty taste
(passed) that the motion of the sea
is incredible for something that's supposed
to be dead (unanimous) like falling trees.


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