Blue sky black rocks

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.