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The first pat reminds me of my bus trips, admittedly south from Christchurch in the late 80s, Max. But I didn’t recognize the trig sites. Drove a good part of the North island too: both having that elder beauty…. This meanwhile catching the remembrance… in action in the young mind recalled… Doug On Sep 16, 2015, at 8:57 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Trig > > Through the side windows of Dad’s car > the North Island rolled by in colour - > > greens mostly, easy on the eye. > Rain would pass over, dulling it all, > > also keeping it green. > Sun again - glinting cabbage trees - > > rail tracks - isolated farm houses - > dark front hedges, sometimes > > hydrangeas - petrol stations - > not much in the way of towns. > > Sheep - dairy herds - some stud bull > alone with its dark bulk. > > Pine forests, cut through rawly > by tough loggers. Fire warnings. > > Recurring, on bare hilltops, > structures of wood shaped > > to a point - Dad said: just > another trig station. > > Trig, intriguing word. > What for? Oh, surveying. > > Might I become a surveyor? > They worked with tripods - > > theodolites, squinting. > The country rested on them. > > I mapped in mind a long walk > up every hill, touching each > > trig station, taking in views, > down and up to the next one. > > Why not carry a tent? - cloth shaped > to fit the trig shape; sleeping bag... > > but when a storm passed over, > lightning might strike the top. > > Stars every clear night, sun-up, > breakfast, and onward. The length > > of the whole island, and then? > He never took us past Wellington. > > Waiting for me much later, unrolled > the slow cruise along the Sound > > to Picton - and even lonelier, > far-flung trig stations of the South. Douglas Barbour [log in to unmask] Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2 (UofAPress). Recording Dates (Rubicon Press). Done in by creation itself. I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too. The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books? We wrote the books. In whose dream, then are we dreaming? Robert Kroetsch.