Hot Summer Walk

On Auckland’s summer streets I seek the shady side
Under chattering clattering palms.
I tread on crisp puka leaves
That shatter like toast.

How long have those old people been slumped
On rattan chairs on that verandah
Under black karaka trees speckled with orange berries?

Those young fluoro people with flossy floppy hair,
How can they leap about, batting yellow tennis balls
Into the damp white  duvet air?

It is a long way between driveways 
Like a swim up river  – to pick up a child from kindy
Who will want to walk home bare foot,
Even though the pavement burns.

*

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*
Auckland Summer

On a concrete step in the shade
In my nightdress I sip tea.
It is 7 am. There is no wind.
The birds are singing.
Bees bulldoze the borage.

To my right shine chillies, basil, tomatoes,
To my left  one red plastic dump truck
With a yellow tip tray,
And a silver pedal car which is full of sand.

Soon the day will begin.
But right now it’s just me and the birds,
Ad there’s the neighbour, two doors down,
Having a noisy shower
With his small giggling daughter
In a bathroom with all the windows open.

*

Ambition

They leave the house to walk to school.
They must hurry.  She has places to go.
“What are you going to be,Grandma?”

What career will she choose – at last?
No. He lives in the bold, blind now.
“I’ll be a  roaring lion,” she says.

“No. You have to be a vehicle.”
“I’ll be a flatbed truck.”
“I am a flatbed,” he says. “You can’t be.”

“I’ll be a flatbed truck with a lion on it .”
My flatbed has one of everything in the universe on it.”
“I’ll just be the lion then, on a bike.”

“Your lion’s jumped  onto my flatbed!” he laughs.
“You’ll never know what you should be, Grandma.”
He wins the  race up the hill. and they get  to school early.

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You Start At The Top and Go Straight Down

Crouching beside a low table, and folded like a leaflet,
I help five year olds to write the alphabet.
Charlotte points her pencil: “ What’s that on your finger?”
“Something must have bitten me in the garden,” I say.
“Ugh.” She shrinks away.

Maggie asks, “Why is the skin see -through around your eyes?”
“Like very screwed up tissue paper,” adds Alice.
“Like I blew my nose on it,”  says Jason S.
Their upholstered, velvet skin is so unmarked,
The eyes, nostrils and lips seem to pop out of it, surprised.

I say, “You start your ‘I’ letter from the top and go down,
Not from the bottom up. I will show you. Again.”
They stare in horror at my knuckle bulges,  at how the grey veins
On my hand, swollen and uprisen  like worms on a brick path after rain,
Cross three bone bridges before disappearing.

“Is that a wedding ring?” asks Leo.
“Did someone give you that?” asks Aiden.
“Concentrate. You start at the top and go straight down,” I say.
“Do we have to do this?” asks Jaden.
“Everyone has to,” I say.  “And everyone does it this way.”
*

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Cross Country

Parents bunched at the start/finish line
All leaning in one direction,
Eyes on a corner of a classroom
Across the playing field
Where tall trees cast dark shadows
On such a sunny day.

They had temporarily lost all knowledge
Of the whereabouts of their five year olds
Who had run away from them
Around a much nearer corner
And gone, who knows how far away.

Some grandparents among those waiting
Remembered Apollo 8, Christmas 1968
Disappearing behind the moon
And we on Earth waiting in the dark,
Not knowing what to say
Or even how to pray.

Three crosses in the trees,
Three small white tee shirts,
The first children out of gloom into glory.
And the parents not knowing
Till this moment -Who ? Who? –
How their five year old had measured up.

The three front runners raced past, waving, winners.
Back then the astronauts had quoted Genesis,
Mission Control jumped up and down,
And Earthlings squared their shoulders and knew
Three of their own had come out in front.
*

Two Small Child Poems

Transformed by What He Digests

They are doing monarch butterflies at school.
The caterpillars rear, swivel and stretch,
Turning their leaf pages slowly.

After school, on the couch the boy lies long,
Black shorts and black and white top,
A big illustrated book wide open in front of him.

He has emerged from the classroom chrysalis
And morphed into a bookerfly.
*

Night Light

I lift his tense body, making sure
The special blanket is wrapped round him
And not caught in the ruck of bedding.

I stagger to the couch in the bay window
Half of which is bathed in street lamp light,
A soft white on the tired grey upholstery.

4 am. Quiet. No cars on the road.
I massage his plump feet and sing the cramp away.
4.15. Still no cars. Not one.

“Is that better now?” I ask my grandson.
“Sing more songs,” he smiles, eyes shut.
And I do.

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The Hut

The hut was made by a child
Who wove storm-broken branches,
And made an open-fronted, one room shelter,
A place safe from which to watch out
And to guard her back.

A place with no shower, mail or electricity,
A place to be animal again, ruled by the here and now,
To feel individual hairs prick the back of her neck,
A place to crouch.

In her life she will cross many thresholds,
Reach out to many coffee tables,
Slouch on many couches,
But nowhere will she have everything she needs
Except in her forest hut.

 
Kawau hut

*

Thinning carrots

“We do this,” I told him, “to give the bigger ones
More space to grow even stronger.”
“They are the warrior carrots of space,” he said.

We pulled the smaller ones straight upwards,
Feeling their desperate resistance.
There they were, thin as Tane’s little finger.

A foot long, some of them, they glowed gold
In the slow burning air. “We’ve found it,”
He said. “Tutankhamen’s treasure.”

Had we outwitted the natural cycles
Of give and take, build and break,
And out of chaos pulled perfection?

“Are these what they call baby carrots?”
I nodded. “Just right for your school lunch.”
I don’t eat babies. So there. ”

He turned the longest one upside down.
A rocket, with green frond flames flowing behind.
“This one is going to the Moon.”

T carrot 1T carrot 2

Auckland Summer

On a concrete step in the shade

In my nightdress I sip tea.

It is 7 am. There is no wind.

The birds are singing.

Bees hoover the poppy flowers.

I have watered the seedlings and swept the courtyard.

 

To my right are terraces of flowers,

and silver beet, mint, parsley, sage.

To my left is a parking bay for

One red dump truck full of blocks,

One tricycle with no pedals

And a silver BMW pedal car which is full of sand.

 

Soon the sandpit lid will be raised

And the day will begin.

But right now it’s just me,

The birds, and the neighbour, two doors down,

Having a noisy shower

With his small giggling daughter

In a bathroom with all the windows open.

*

I send this poem to all those friends in Wellington who don’t seem to have had any summer at all.

Commuting

The office worker runs across the rush-hour intersection

after the green man has stopped flashing.

We do not follow. We wait as cars churn past.

He runs as though he is still sitting in his swivel chair;

bottom out, knees bent. One hand clutches his bag,

the other his tie, or maybe it is his heart.

Grandma, why is that man running funny?

Because his tie is strangling him.

Because his tummy hurts.

Because he sits so much he can’t straighten;

like your plastic digger driver who is always getting lost

and Grandma finds him when she treads on him

lying on the carpet with both legs in the air,

as though he’s the first man ever to have a gynecological examination.

Why, Grandma, truly?

Because an invisible monster is chasing him.

Because he is a hunter hunting a bus.

Because he doesn’t know the rules or

Because he knows the rules, has played by them all day,

and now wants just one tiny thrill of breaking them.

Because he wants to get home, fast, to see the children

he hasn’t seen all day, only their photos on his phone.

Why?

Just because.

Eclipsed

Eclipsed

Sometimes I feel as battered as the moon
And as cold, as alone, and as old.
Always in orbit, turning, yearning
My face towards yours,
You the Earth, core of my gravity.

Sometimes I am Saturn
And you run rings round me.
Sometimes you are angry red Mars
And I take so long to reach you
And stumble when I get there.

Mostly you are the sun
And when we build towers or hunt tigers
For hours and hours, or roll gingerbread,
I warm my cold, old, battered self
In your burning, burning brightness.

Please, when it’s bedtime, don’t howl at me.
I am doing my best, pretending to be
A Sea of Tranquillity.
Goodnight, sleep tight, my little star.
How I wonder what you are to be.
sleeping rough