Te Whanganui-a-Tara | Windy Wellington
I miss the sad wind blowing,
With cool indifference as it whips
Pasted concert fliers off the weather beaten walls
Of a seaside fish and chips.
I miss the local people,
Who like the seaside flaxes
Are sharp and quiver with determination,
Their resounding disposition
Centered like the mighty river
In the heart of the Nation,
The Whanganui is shaped
Like Maui’s useful hook,
And they can tell me less by talking,
Than with a single look,
I miss the accents and mannerisms
Voices smoother than polished greenstone,
Warm heartwood carved from the Totara,
Like the Waka that brought them home.
I miss the silent Waiata,
Ever present in the air
As I hike gauze-covered hills
Without a worry or a care,
And the valley’s tiny rivulets
Under the dense, palm covered bush,
Where can always be heard
The chirping of the fantail
And persistent clucking
Of the stately Tui bird
And deeper still I miss the silent drumming
Of Aotearoa’s hot, volcanic heart,
Broken by the fault lines of a people torn apart.
I miss the Māoritanga being mended,
Through stewardship of land and sea,
Now Te Reo is being taught across the nation,
And love being shaped by the larger hearts
Of every rising generation
I miss lying in high branches with blankets
Laid out across the dense and sprawling crown
Of Mount Victoria’s California pine,
And gazing out at the city sparkling
With a glass of bright ebullient wine.
I miss the streets of Queen and Cuba,
Where the buskers come to play,
And feeding almonds to the Kakas
Who mock everything we say
I miss looking for native Taonga –
Galaxiid minnows, leaf litter frogs,
And rebellious Tuatara tumbling,
In gardens and forests laced with tiny glow worms
Revealing the path with home-made lights,
And gazing at the Southern Cross
On those rare still and starry nights
I miss spotting the agile Kiwi bird,
As he bumbles through the ferns smelling out a feed,
Protected by possum proof fences
So that he can live and breed.
I miss the jagged Southern Coastline
Always promising new thrills,
And smoking cannons with my Hoa
On graffitied ramparts in the hills,
And I miss casually looking out
Over the vast and shimmering Tasman Sea
Above the Kingdom of Tangaroa,
The place where I have felt most free.
I miss the icy rush of the first dip,
And folding my body after that final breath,
My weights carrying me deeper,
As if flying to my death,
But having never felt more alive.
I miss my seven millimeter wetsuit
That I would thank for holding me so tight,
As I hovered over four hundred species of seaweeds
Flashing with rainbow-colored light.
I miss greeting the ancient Wheke,
Intelligently amorphous,
Chromatic skin bluer than the water,
But for his curious yellow eye,
And Berhampore café after the snorkel
Enjoying a flat-white and a pie,
As I contemplate with gratitude and a warm enduring glow,
That cold and distant world that so few have come to really know
I miss skating along the endless Harbour
And smiling at the beautiful people who jog by me, each in their own way,
I miss my fellow travelers, and the street Capoeira that we play,
And watching the ocean-fountain lit up with multi-colored light,
Sprinkling over the still black mirror of Oriental Bay at night.
Finally, I miss counting the little blue Kororu penguin
In his Taputeranga Island embankment,
Under a flax bush by the sub-Antarctic sea,
Close to Te Whanganui-a-Tara,
The place where I most love to be.