Fronts

In front
there’s a bare fence — a trellis
sprouting one pink rose,
and the rest is holes
stapled together with ply.

The wind blows hard
up against the clay bank opposite.
The pohutukawa turns
pale leaves away from the gale,
covering her red blooms.

The house is a strange grey
and the concrete steps are chipped,
Paspalum flowers from the cracks.
The wind blows in hard gasps
tormenting the creeper on the garage
tearing and tormenting.

I wonder where the cats went
last night.
I couldn’t leave the window open
in case they were blown in.
You’d have to be a hardy soul
to live here
where so much is torn down.

When the sun comes out
I’ll sit in this wicker chair
and watch the girls walk home
from work.
they seem happy, the wind
just another challenge, exhilaration.
I wonder if I’m the only one
feeling daunted, persecuted
by this front.

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Percolations

Don’t go down to the sea
lovers
when all is not well between you
don’t pick up shells or
stroke the rocks or
watch the white waves
break high on the bar.
Pohutukawas bend
crimson flowers to the sea
so lovingly
so close you are
you and the sea
you’ll hurt each other.

Go if you must go
somewhere
to the middle mall of a city lane
where your bad feelings
will get lost in the orange
flowers on the wall
and the smell of percolation
which like a song over-sung
will decant quickly
into nothing
along endless streets.

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