Picton
to Kaikoura, the coast road
Picturesque
splendour,
enveloped
in green hills and blue waters
Picton,
jewel of the sounds
stands
alone in simplicity,
small
town, big outlook.
I
drive on, the ferry behind,
churning
whitewater for Wellington
and
pass the gap into Marlborough,
into
the flat expanse, the Koromiko
cheese
factory closed long ago, shame!
Journey
on to Blenheim
a
small place trying to be big, never!
supporting
a rural diversity, wine and crop
cattle
and sheep, and fishing too
stop
for KFC in case I get hungry.
Now
out on the highway, southbound
past
farms and houses and people
going
about their daily commerce,
down
to the Awatere River and that crazed
bridge,
one way, rail on top, makes me smile.
Through
King Dicks town, and Ward,
little
farming places where even the petrol
companies
have withdrawn support,
ever
onwards to the coast and the lure
of
green seas and gulls flying in the breeze.
The
loneliness draws in, as do the might
of
the Seaward Kaikoura's, imposing
in
their might so close to the ocean,
I
admire the rockiness, and stony beaches
the
raw power of nature not yet whittled.
The
road narrows, and trucks inch past at speed
on
their daily milk runs to and fro,
unlike
me, not cognisant of the seals
and
large beds of sea kelp swimming in unison
with
the rough waves and ebbing tide.
Offshore,
leviathans of the deep roar
in
their abundant playground,
diving
to depths not measured and for food
never
exhausted, Southern Wrights, Sperm,
and
Orca all frolic for tourists to admire.
Through
tunnels, and past railway lines etched
deep
into cliffs and scree escarpments,
little
towns that exist for the pleasure
of
passing motorists, and life that is simple,
and
their it shines, journeys' end, Kaikoura.
I
have travelled that road many a time,
and
always, I see the same things, but different
somehow,
and I know that I will have to travel again,
that
stretch of tarmac, gravel and scree, I yearn
for
that road, for that pleasure, as do my kids.
The
Northerner, September 1975
Hick
kid on a full platform,
Palmerston
North emblazoned
on
a smoked stained sign,
empty
cups of tea on seats
where
passengers sat,
the
cold at 8.30pm evident
as
Mum and Dad wave me off,
Mums
tears hidden by a warm smile
back
to Auckland for me,
young
sailor heading back to work.
The
sounds of carriages graunch together
as
the locomotive takes the slack
and
pulls out of the station, slowly
then
building as city lights give in to
scattered
splatterings of farms, dark
in
the night, I sit on hardened worn
leather
and wood, sparse, uncomfortable
my
bed for the night, and the smell
of
diesel fumes waft down the carriage
and
starts to drift people off to sleep.
All
the carriages are full, young, old
and
all those in between, and I am in
a
carriage of quiet, not my scene
for
the long journey ahead, so I stand
and
walk back, back to the rear carriages
the
party buses, "gats" out
the
songs flowing with amber fluid
and
the harder stuff, to fight the cold,
I
sit, unfold my prize, 26 ounces
of
black gold, Coruba rum, and they strum,
Fielding....
Hunterville....Utuku........
strumming
songs from the Maori Hit Parade,
Ten
Guitars, Sheryl Moana Marie, and we
are
all friends on the journey of night,
cold
night and soon the bottle empties
warming
my vocals and now freindships,
Taihape.......
and
a mad dash for all to the Taihape Hotel,
fighting
your way through the Ten O'clock melee
of
Holden V8's and Black Power boys
crowding
the pub with their ever presence,
their
place, but we nightly invaders struggle
(always
a struggle), to do it in the 14 minutes
those
who drank tea took to eat a pie
and
down their Railways Cup brew,
but
we all seemed to make it, tea and booze
and
the rest who spent the time to snooze.
Waiouru.....
and
the cold hits you, as soldiers came and went
round
the vast darkness of a mountain asleep
and
Ohakune, the compulsory stop
where
crews changed, northbound/southbound
and
the party went on, liquid fire.
National
Park..........
I
had never seen it , until I drove it one day,
years
later on the daylight railcar,
Raurimu
Spiral, feat of engineering
and
kiwi ingenuity, round and round
and
up and down, a splendour once viewed,
Taumaranui........Te
Kuiti.........Otorohonga.......
towns
that existed due to the very rails
that
passed through them, stock towns
heartland
New Zealand, but darkened by
the
night trains ritual, and sleeping,
yet
the party wore on as the grog dies,
Te
Awamutu....... Hamilton......... Ngaruawahia.........
and
the clickety click of bogeys on the bridge
over
the mighty Waikato soon had sleep
burgeoning
and the rest of the trip was
one
of comfort, booze addled comfort
and
to this day I look at those seats, and wonder
Huntly........
Pokeno........... Papakura..........
places
I slept through, and never met,
and
then the stop, the silence, Auckland
and
the early morning bustle of light and
commuter
traffic, life again, and work so soon
and
I have survived another trip on the train.
The
Northerner, may you rest in peace, New Zealand Icon
A
New Zealand Islands Anthology
Auckland
Islands
Roaring
forties,
iced
horizontal rain
sweeps
across a bleak
and
inhospitable terrain,
bushes
no taller
than
an average man
windswept
to the east
as
if the beast had rolled
and
flattened all.
Peat
moss as deep
as
a mans thigh
hides
deep crevices
untold
secrets, and wild boar
vying
for space with sea lions
and
elephant seals,
Wandering
Albatross aplenty
out
over dark blue seas
The
Islands only neighbour.
Stewart
Island.
Gog,
Magog, Mt Anglem,
sentinels
north and south,
overseeing
expanding
National
Park
Rough
as rough can be
the
locals, friendly but locals
nonetheless,
wary at best.
Hunters,
hairy, rugged
stalkers
of Sika,
rustling
about in huts and tracks
cut
deep, for the pleasure of them
and
nature seekers, worldwide,
licked
constantly by terse sou'westers
and
winters grasp never slackened.
Whale
sharks cruise Paterson Inlet
with
King Emporer Penguin and blue cod,
and
you wonder at the beauty of it all.
Great
Barrier Island
Home
to many harbours
and
retired hippies,
growing
and smoking pot
homemade
wines, scorching
Tryphena,
Port Fitzroy,
and
gay Whangaparapara harbours,
usually
empty, but for the
summer
bustle of Auckland yachties.
A
lifestyle Island, backward yet there
repressed
but modern,
touched
yet untouched
but
for the daily grind of human life,
playground
of the amateur angler
and
whales transitting the coast,
may
it remain an isolated beauty
for
all to come and see.
Little
Barrier Island
Stark
desolation, volcanic
dense
bush covered sanctuary
to
tuatara and native birds,
steep
cliffed, unassailable from sea
but
for the promontory sou'east,
to
land, you must have DOC clearance
a
sanctuary of preserved pasts,
and
possible futures.
Poor
Knights Islands
Deep
Pacific Blue surrounds
an
offshore group famous
the
world over for diving,
steep
ragged cliffs give way
to
steep smoothed sides
into
dive territories to be admired,
no
fishing, a restriction abounds
and
is abided by with pain of loss
of
boat and gear, steer clear,
yet
out from that no go zone,
boats
ply their trade, marlin, yellowfin
and
many varieties of game for tables
and
long admired trophy cabinets.
Waiheke
Island
UH!!
Barren f**king wasteland,
killed,
no trees left, no birds
no
native nothing, man huh!
It's
a suburb of grotesque
ugly
Auckland and noone cares,
sooner
see the houses bulldosed
humankind
vacated, and trees,
lots
of trees, planted
and
the islands of this country
returned
to natures jewels.
Somes
Island
So........ok
maybe it deserves
to
be a quarantine island,
we
do need one.
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