nowadays when I go for a run
I run to the bay
where the ships
wreaked themselves on the rocks
it was a common scene
back then, some made it
some didn’t. I wonder
when the lighthouse got built…
I run to this bay because the quarry
got shut down
and now the naked cliffs
are slightly gorged
and it feels ok to scream
this new heaven
bumpy and accelerated
white frothy isobars
changing like my moods
this new ocean grey and calm
or moody, what sits beneath
is above and
I forgot to let the ladder fall
land hovers
ungrounded
accumulations
waiting for gravity
to adjust
I’m looking out
and nothing
nothing of that stream
or wind
sounds like the dark
but there it is
existing
within the water
running
and in between the bare trees
my window
black like
extinguished colour
static waterfall
dance of plumage
white flowering
waiting
for the forest
to take over
static waterfall
dance of plumage
white flowering
waiting
for the forest to take over
these trains sound
like mountains moving
exerting so much will
and I can’t help but feel their efforts
I feel run over in the morning
as I wake up to another
gut-guzzling wall of sound
crushing me
into the physical
this hill juts out like a gumboot
among sandshoes
splashing into the bay as a child
dances in puddles
I am all by my self up here
over looking many memories
and tides
I feel so held together
I am in the outcrop of trees
and in the northerly swirl of sea gulls
they track past at eye level
and lift like a slippery thought
I have the windows closed
the memories tap quietly
A man is shouting outside
down the hill from me
it is an autistic sound
like an argument with the wind
the voice is strong
and tunneled
A soft sheeng of a bell
peels the distraction away
I close my eyes
and lean back into my spine
My mind
holds space together
dependent on my ears –
constructing what is still
or moving or hard or distant
These sounds give space away
The fireplace tinkles shiny metal
within a room.
The carpet sounds old, little filaments
stuck to attention. Rubbing.
A bird reaches a tree – wood and song – soft
like a diminished presence. Closed windows.
The man is shouting, heavier –
climbing stairs – words becoming clear:
if you are going on a journey
…
I am sitting on a cushion, eyes closed
and I know there’s no one with him –
this man is shouting at the air, which does not contract
like a disagreement
there is no rebound
there is momentum
there’s inspiration, singularity
forceful conviction
a cat pouncing
a shag diving
a man running
a red light
if you are going on a journey
you must look at the signs
My meditation teacher giggles.
Wake me up, in a hut before first light,
just shake my feet
as you come
down from the top bunk.
Let’s be quieter
than the rustling breath of sleepers
and early morning summit climbers.
Let’s be softer than the wood
chopping snores of
exhausted parents.
Let’s pretend they didn’t keep
us awake with their dreams
of hunting.
Instead, let us escape into
the view of early morning –
There’s a mountain
underneath us, take a look at
the coveted valley – because in the dark
someone uncoiled clouds
and laid them out, unbraided
between peaks,
hoping to gather
all the sounds
of night and the unspoken words of day
and someone left them there for the sun to pick up
the shadows
the light
the frost
the steam
dissolving
as the fingers of the sky
and the fingers of the valley
seek to hold hands
I
The trig is clear
from a ridge two hours walk away.
A well deserved stop –
we boil a hot chocolate
with chilli
to warm up us.
For a mountain top
there’s no wind
and our breath is the only cloud.
We take a stone to the trig
and write a poem
on its rusted black board
and then we jump around
warming our feet –
the sun has another hour to drop.
II
We can see a chalk smudge triangle
the size of my little fingernail
it is Mt Taranaki, around it
the air
shivering –
unsure of itself.
The coastline at day’s end
teal and white
golden
and empty, a crescent
shaped for the sun to find
a comfortable slot.
III
There are mountains
brushed as a single stroke
into the sea.
Up here, there are many islands
many skies many seas
and a seam of blue
pours them together
as the blue flies out
and fades out.
IV
On my feet I slowly spin
these mountains
a full circle
capturing something
a foot away
and unfathomable space.
V
Our billy is empty
we have finger-licked the chocolate
pieces melted to the bottom
the billy reflects back
a golden world
but the metal is cold.
VI
The sun is not far off
setting, the sea is hosting the fire
and throwing it back into the sky.
VII
We pack up and
see the first star.
VIII
Crimson.
