".. Aaa a long thi wa a tch tow er r"
(you remember) XTC bring present, barely
familiar, discordant, where we laze browning
in the late September south wind and sun
and the half circle of bay razorbacks -
imagine S an uneven peninsula row of points,
and the drop of fork diagrams
to the sea, ochre, like McCahon's dreamt hills of Otago,
but more jagged.. Willy's on the rind,
light's on the face of hawk like a krugerand
circling, his feather's ruffling.. tiny hot goats on the hills..
adrift or flying to you, bringing bits of this east
Nick first then Cook saw, telling of how
packhorse crayfish lept in the rough bay like whales.