The Prospect from Titirangi
(Auckland 1962-3)
The road from town wound upward -
a few cars, a rare bus. Short of the top,
you pulled the cord, got off - or parked
where you could and locked,
clambered with your parcels
up steep winding steps
rainwater eroded, made slips
of soil dark, slithery.
The house on the hill looked
out far - cramped indoors
you had to look past mean walls,
stretch past pinched floors.
In that steep garden
half-way up its private hill
the more the views were large,
the more the house felt small.
Further up, but for the trees,
the westward vista was to where
cold Tasman lurked; clearer
north-east over suburbs to city,
its warmer east coast harbour,
and also if you knew where
inquisitively to crane your neck,
the nearer harbour, Manukau,
untrafficked outlet to the Tasman,
shallow, tame, neglected;
tree-ferns down to the water,
hidden cottages, protected.
All that was years - an age - ago,
a new raw marriage ago,
cramped egos elbow to elbow,
dire shortage of insight,
surplus of panorama,
gold sunrise, iridescent sunset;
benign weather passed over,
never a flood nor a drought;
a prospect, promises, a rough
journey from Whenuapai - there -
where the last old airliner
overseas left a lifetime ago.
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