It’s a hard life

I struggle to stay with the other old buggers

as we grind up the gravel road

from Scandretts Bay to the ridge,

a Tuesday morning commitment

despite the recent scud of rough weather.

These folded and stepped hill slopes

green with the juice of spring

have had their contours clinker-hulled

by generations of grazing sheep

whose meat and wool are now marginal,

the farmers forced to dig deep.

Gasping, we chat a bit and glance the view

flicking from scoured track over the lush

to white sails with Kawau beyond,

trading tales of work that was,

local goss and epic rides to come,

as knuckled tyres grip and spit the grit

and we build a thirst for coffee.

The children

As if it is left to the dark

rain-glossed trees burdened

with bright ripe citrus

and the long-fingered kikuyu that prowls

the weathered board house

to do something

about the children.

Clenched words

I ask again

as he tamps the black bowl

with a blunt finger and

lights the old briar with a match,

watch him draw, working

those fortress cheeks and jaw

then wait

while following his gaze

through evocative wafts

of sweet sharp smoke

down to the tardy

river below

even as his clenched words

elude me once more.