beautiful monsters

Notebook

(scraps of journal from a walk around the south east coast)

On a windless day, it is hard to escape civilisation; even in this valley, sheltered from views of the city, the persistent hum of aircraft mars the silence.

*

Down by the road
the whirr of passing cyclists
voices snatched from the air
half a conversation
a ragged breath.

A boat, run aground
its cargo
a jumble of rocks and plants.
Flakes of white paint lie
like dandruff on the grass.

*

A manoeuvring propeller;
on its shoulder
the faint indentation
of letters.
The surface cracked, rough
with rust. Blunt
edges of the blades
jammed
into the dirt.

*

Up on the hill
the monument to a peaceful dictator
like a huge stick of chalk
scraping the sky.

*

People have invaded the earth and the air; even the surface of the water is sliced through with boats. But beneath the surface the sea is teaming with life. Tangles of seaweed and flickering shoals of fish, clusters of crustaceans. I sit beside a rockpool, watching the tiny shells of living creatures, hundreds of them, going about their lives.

*

Hard to believe
this calm pool of water
in the palm of a rock
is part of the sea.

*

I remember as a child I was afraid of the sea. In summer we would head north to Maunganui, Waihi or Waiheke Island. I would lie awake for hours, stiff with fright. It wasn’t the crash as the water was dumped onto the sand, but the silence as the sea sucked each wave back. Each pause seemed to stretch for an eternity as I imagined the sea rolling back towards the horizon, the purple rim of the ocean lifting and rising against the clouds.

*

Here the sea seems feral, desperate. The waves fling themselves at my feet, water torn to shreds - white ribbons thrown across the rocks.

When the wind is aroused, civilisation retreats back to the city and the coast is raw and isolated. The only sounds are the rush of the wind and the explosions of spray. The only sensation is the sting of the wind, cold and laced with salt.

Back in the city I cling
to shreds of the sea
wild memories.

*

I imagine

kumara
fragile tentacles
reaching towards the sun

the huge bodies of waka
pulled high on the beach

at night
sparks dance
away from the fires.

*

Tane
the fugitive
creeps out of the valley

his green children
rangiora, kawakawa, ti kouka
reclaim the hillsides.

*

Taniwha tremble
beneath the surface
the sea writhes.

*

I imagine
time

coiled tight

like a koru
woven from flax

the past and the future
nudge against us.

Posted by Fionnaigh at July 21, 2003 08:28 PM