I hear them before, I see -

my view is not of the tide.

Calling out to each other

to stay together.

Then at a distance,

darkening the sky and

following instinctive maps

to far away places

the ancient migratory trail.

My people are going,

fading, shrouded in mist.

No step now the worn sill

no peer through the grim.

Planting done, collected in

stones lapping, omens seen

but more, whole for ever.

Been.

Hull Road 1951

We lived just a Mother’s call away from a
white sandy beach and a stream running to the sea.
Close enough to hear the wind in the dark pine forest.
Summer almost eternal,
but winter came and bought chilblains,
broken glass on puddles, echoing voices, other times.
Mimi squelching Sidle jelly between the fingers.
Firsts happened here, sheltered lessons of life.
Returning many times, I do not see the changes.
It is a feeling for the place. A healing.
Immigrants we were and are, invisibly tied forever.
Mt. Maunganui before the world went mad.