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.