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.
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