I stand atop a volcano beside a museum
Commemorating the upheavals of war.
Men dead in mud.
All that rain.
A crying shame.
From under my sun hat brim
I admire a younger volcano, Rangitoto,
The way she hovers above the Gulf
In her ember-red Christmas gown
Making sure she doesn’t get it wet.
Thee’s a giant stingray, beached,
on top of the War Memorial Museum.
It’s underneath eyes overlook dried up seas
Of summer cricket pitches.
A crank? A student prank?
Such lack of respect. The suspect,
I expect, is an architect.
I wade into the dryness.
The only greens are the oases
Of synthetic turf between batter and bowler.
I beach comb for bottle caps,
The ones that have flipped over onto their backs,
Their sharp frills waiting to cut toddler toes
Or a diving fielder’s fingers.
On the edge of this caldera
Where shells are occasionally unearthed,
Prevention of injury is all I aspire to.
I’m just helping to balance water and fire