Anyone would recognize a seagull & a ship's funnel
or a filled roll --
the rest you wouldn't:
The lobotomized Observation Point;
the heaps of butter-coloured woodchips;
cranes higher than church steeples;
streets without carts or horses;
giant wagons covered in logs thundering past
a souvenir shop;
plastic bags floating in the horse trough.
You'd know the Post Office but not the Scott Memorial.
The Post Office is a museum --
a collection of model boats, bottles & photos of
significant citizens;
a picture of a band rotunda bedecked with Coronation
Celebration Empire Flags.
I look for you & the others behind glass & tobacco tin.
Where is your paddle-ferry? Where is your captain's hat?
Where are your steady, calm eyes scanning the
fog for Portobello jetty;
your boat full of hatted, ribboned shoppers?
Port Chalmers is closed today.
There's no one in the library but me & a lady behind the counter.
I look for a book on paddle-steamers.
I find a dog-eared History of Port Chalmers.
Here's a word you won't know -- 'cappuccino'.
I had one & a peach almond muffin in the former milliner's shop
across the road from the Bank of New Zealand.
You can't get ribbons any more & the bank's closed its doors.
Without leaving your seat you can marvel at the size
of the cruise ships & container ships --
(now there's another word you won't know).
You can lose your bearings & still like it here . . .
'No Fishing or Unauthorized Entry', reads the sign
at the wharf gate.
I get out of bed & put
on the porridge & make
a pot of tea; & if I had
a cat I'd feed her too but
I don't, so I open
the back door to let in
what's left of the sun
before it moves round to the
front & one of my neighbours
staggers past with a basket
of washing heading for
the laundry -- & I say nice day for it
& he says yes; then Kim Hill
puts on a record of a woman
singing out of tune (but very modern)
& I forget about the beer.