Although the blue sky lured me out
riding around Lyall Bay
I found the long black road shaded
from a low-slung northern sun,
grateful that a passing ute
broke the law on my behalf
to swerve over the double-yellow
lines and give me width.
Out in the flat of Cook Strait
the inter-island ferry snails past
a confident little red tug boat
hauling a stricken ship back
into harbour, past jagged black rocks
in shore, snow topping the backdrop range.
Kia tūpato is twice signed at Moa Point
where little blue penguins may cross,
just as my Nana Mae
would warn to take care,
her serene smooth face
forever denying the shame
of death by drowning,
a young troubled husband
lost overboard crossing
this beguiling strait
on his way to Hanmer Springs.