David in Pen and Pics

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Found a pump and cleaned the chain,

Been 5 years, I’m on the trial again.

New faces, bikes, on our cycle way.

Cool morning but now, a sunny day.

Crunch of gravel, wind through the hair,

Well what’s left, let’s be fair.

Folk outdoors to see what’s up.

Mum, dad, the kids, and mind the pup.

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Leaving town, past gardens, trees.

Young folk pass me, take their ease.

Once that was me, I’d show them how

But I ride and style, I am older now.

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Breathe in, 1st bridge, I’m at the top.

A photograph, I have to stop.

Rest in peace, boats on the hard.

Untold tales an old shipyard.


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Through farmland, quail with tiny feet,

Dash together, an urgent bleat.

Follow the leader, leader a rush and gone.

I’m panting now, but I pedal on.

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Snowy clouds and large blue skies.

A pony, still, with soft brown eyes.

Third cattle stop, I’ve passed the test.

Now homewards, up the hill, and rest.

‘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.

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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

When you know it’s Fridge Door Time.

And the first of the fires.

Back street. Back of our cinema.

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.

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.