Revisiting Auckland
[I might have been another Schopenhauerı
Chekhovıs Uncle Vanya]
These streets I walked when young,
fond of their old bits, sad at the new.
Twenty-five, I left, as one did,
for overseası and broadeningı.
Britain had breadth, depth, history,
and this was the ısixties maybe
not much present or future.
Wanting to return at thirty,
found no job, took one next door,
Australia similar,
dissimilar. A lifetime could explore
the contrasts. Melbourneıs streets
had their colour and shadow,
worth painting, writing about,
not to mention the bush,
but they wouldnıt be mine.
I pined for the tree-ferns
and kauri of Titirangi,
the black sands of Piha,
the cool peak of Taranaki,
the winding climb up
from town and the bookshops
through Albert Park, past
the cumbersome floral clock
to Princes Street and its hum
of student life, its racial mix,
its possibilities of growth
I might have contributed.
A lifetime passed, I taught a lot,
wrote little mid-Tasmanı,
easily overlooked; popping back
for the odd holiday, knew
Iıd lacked the necessary
singleness only myself to blame.
Now as I pack to fly over,
touch down for the last time maybe
near Aucklandıs streets, Iıll trudge about
in hopes of resting in those old bits
I fancied, grumbling no doubt
at all the recent outgrowths,
towers, casino, new books,
not what I dreamed of,
not what I might have contributed,
verse Schopenhauer of Titirangi.
The floral clock long since must
be dust and rust and not missed.
Wednesday 21 May 2008
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria
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