Although the blue sky lured me out
riding around Lyall Bay
I found the winding 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 red tug boat
hauling a stricken ship back
into harbour, past jagged black rocks
in shore, snow topping the backdrop range.
Kia tūpato is signed at Moa Point
where little blue penguins may cross,
just as my Nana Mae would warn
us to take care, her wide serene face
forever denying the shame
of chosen death by drowning,
a troubled husband without a tug,
lost overboard while crossing
this cold beguiling strait,
a nervous farmer in indifferent health
on his way to therapy at Hanmer.