To Hone,
The friend who convinced me normality is not so hot
But poetry is…

A skylark above the Catlins pours out its song

The tide licks at the road along Molyneaux Bay
Sullenly without yesterday’s winter sun
Lightening the village’s ascent from beach to peak

Unrepenting the tide hisses at the road head-on
Pushing it closer by the day to the church
And the woman mowing beneath its yellow sides

The last voice to reach the pew by the door
Asked for a reasonable offer to start the bids
A visitor wonders how much is an old church worth

Sombre bush spills over rounded hill and gentle slopes
Where natives fell in headlong rush before axe and fire
And men and animals sucked the land of life

Poets and writers inhabit this chocolate box countryside
Neighbours to cows contained in tree-lined symmetry
Churning their bed of winter mud for the night ahead

The tramper climbs the fence to drink but shies away
Where hoofmarks merge with rancid silt and turbid waters flow
And trout and whitebait struggle against the odds

Skylarks as far as North Cape take up a song that varies little
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