Sunday alone, legging up Hemi Matenga
powered by timtams and how fit I was
ten years ago. Tripping on roots sitting up
like suitcase handles on the clay hard angles.
No company today but crisp leaves
compound, serrated, the young fern coils.
Tonight scallops and beer in Whangarei.
And here I see only red markers and
Kohekohe piercing through the
bubble wrap groundcover, watched by
leggy forest limbs and the path goes on.
A ladybird settles me as I stare down on
Kapiti which stares back with ridge lines
raised. No company today but
the grey undercarriage of clouds
a breeze and unwanted asthmas wheeze.
Not the grass only the clover now is green
Highland, like the mustang in Bullitt.
Published in Rob Hack’s first book of poetry Everything is Here, Escalator Press, 2016.