‘tis I, the ancient mariner,
Now four score years plus one.
Yes, I sport a beard – it’s white,
But hush, my story has begun.
Two boys – it was early fifties,
School holidays and free,
To raid our fathers’ tool sheds
Build a boat, and go to sea.
The Manukau, a harbour,
Famed for winds and tidal flow.
What our parents couldn’t see,
Our parents wouldn’t know.
Hammers, nails and pots of paint,
Garden stakes from the backyard shed.
Our mainsail soon will be raised aloft.
It was a sheet nicked off my brother’s bed.
Complete, we sat her on the mud,
Climbed aboard, sat still no motion.
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Now water, water, everywhere
With the turning of the tide.
The boat stuck fast, she failed to rise.
Water lapping now inside.
Back to the drawing board my hearties,
Think and figure out the sums.
Once two mariners, fearless, now –
Two philosophers with wet bums.
Tararu Reserve
Tide out, sun up.
Next come the steps, then turn for home.
Aye, here be elephantiles, crocingators, a-lurking in the murky groves.
Hauraki Rail Trail. With cheery greetings they pass me. Youth has its pluses
Cool Morning, Sun
When you know it’s Fridge Door Time.
And the first of the fires.
Back street. Back of our cinema.
No Hands Shopping
A busy day. Three people in town. Goods are ordered online.
Colours, memories of a sunny autumn.
Yesterday
Wrought in heat and skill
The wind changes.
Tide in. Tide out. The people stay home.
Moored for winter
Next summer . . . ?
Level Three
A pause, for ‘pen and pics’ to write first line.
Covid conquered, pretty much, we’re fine.
Progressed from Four, we’re now on Level Three.
I cycle further, enjoy the air, more free.
To my favourite swimming hole past grazing cows,
Take photos of a bee coz time allows.
Bake bread with wholemeal flour, yes, they’re good.
The sea, the bikeway round the neighbourhood.
Take a seat and rest, the next hill’s steep.
Now home but hush – the cat is still asleep.
No People, Sounds
The church still closed, she waits, a garden gate.
A post for neighbours, news, the postie running late.
The old not so adept ast fetching books online.
The vents are hushed, no chips, no restaurant to dine.
The morning light, the gardens – autumn’s glow.
Reflections in the creek, still running low.
No people, sounds, the town is quiet, old.
Last time was when the men could find no gold.
Shops closed, church closed
And all day to wander
For sale. But not just now.
From gold mining days.
Morning walks in the sun.
And below the stream is quiet
And below the stream is quiet. Until the rain, and the lawnmowers start.
Here I Give Thanks
To my mum and dad, thank you.
Affection, encouragement, restraint on near death –
Those experiments we boys must do.
We had everything, everything except money.
Home-made trailer, roof rack, ‘48 Vauxhall, four kids.
Holidays, sunburn, swimming, free fish.
When the money ran out, we came home.
Mum made clothes, darned socks and trousers.
Second hand was new. “It fits!” And Dad knew stuff.
Stuff about nails, thumbs and hammers and helped
Me fix the letter box that Mum didn’t back into.
“Six lamb loin chops please and Dad gets paid on Thursday.”
My Dad survived the war, the song of shrapnel, the fear . . .
until, “Do you notice something different Dear?’
Curtains? Dad’s eyes darting, Hairdo?
“Well?” Us kids knowing, silent smiling, God bless Mum and Dad.
Sunday Bubble
But not alone. Another solitary soul. Walking. Old friendship renewed. News. Depart at a distance and in goodwill.
Thames yesterday. And still standing.
Shops still closed. Reflections recalling yesterday.
Last stop before home. Top of the hill, a sit down.
Between the showers
Morning walks are calculated. April sun appreciated.
Heat pump turned on for the first time today.
After dinner walks not so common now. An earlier walk, then relax with dinner. Sunrise and sunset are more important than stepping out to ‘clocks back an hour’.
After four years I restore my bike. And slowly restore muscles, muscles for some time in ‘idle mode’.
David in Pen and Pics 