Sunday, June 8

For my frigid mistress, Wellington

From the east the sun peels your shadows,
revealing your white geometry,
as you sprawl your way up the broadest of dales.
So still. So silent. For once.
Carved into the hills,
you glow,
so frigid,
and thus I go,
from my stable bursting,
along beaches now submerged,
as they sat before discovery,
before the world lost its mystery.
My steed, she slows,
stopping at your water’s edge,
where the harbour exists,
before harbours existed,
pippies upon the sand,
framed by hills that stretch on and on,
so mighty,
green folds amongst the calm.
No living eyes.
So still. So silent. For once.
Soft water laps and I lapse,
the stillness breaking,
the breeze rushing,
growing in strength,
as if vexed.
What little warmth there is fades,
and all erodes,
swept away by the wind.
You, my unkempt minx,
windswept and on the brink,
bring me back,
to what lies ahead,
the past in ashes.
With tussled hair, weathered eyes,
weathered soul above all,
I shamble into the headwind,
atop elevated concrete I once forsook,
my mare crumbling to dust below me,
pippies vanquished.
Into the southern wind I tromp,
my cheeks wind blasted ruddy.
And in my marrow, I feel you.
Your grey-green skies, murderous,
I feel you.
And perhaps I love you.
So chill. So violent. At once.

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