She’s driving south in a tiny hatchback
Full of boxes and two violins.
I wish I’d taken a photo.
Every wheel turn, every road turn,
Takes her from the chuckling harbours,
Generous flat land, draped volcanoes
And the wide-open welcoming trees.
I bet the car’s swallowing the road’s white lines
Like a Waitemata snapper catching piper fish.
Shared Auckland moments will become for her,
Like carousel horses that curve away, vanish,
To return another time maybe up, maybe down.
Non-living, complete, unchanging.
Memory turns Time into re-visitable Space
Where photographs can act as road signs.
But she’s too young to use the rear view mirror
And I never saw her take a photo.