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Saturday, June 09, 2007

A Café in Akaroa

Sometimes I work, sometimes I write; they both begin with "w" and I get easily confused as to which I should be doing. Lately there's been far too much working and not enough writing. So, Mrs fordy and I took off for a weekend 'blob fest' over the hills to Akaroa. Where, on the twentieth anniversary of our coming to New Zealand, we found ourselves lunching at a street café and watching the boats bobbing on the harbour...

A Café in Akaroa

A winter's day
we sat outside
a café
in Akaroa
warm in the low-sky-sun
twenty years to the day
since we embraced
these shores
expectant, as the gulls
watching from the pier.

A far cry
from an Anglo new-town's
concrete sharpness
to a green hilled harbour
with Gallic sounds;
Rue Jolie
is where we walked today
to sit outside
a café
in Akaroa.

A child ran
dad in hand
across the shore
laughing for his mother
and I wondered
at the dreams we chased
that brought us to this place
to sit outside
a café
in Akaroa

Globe of time
burst by pinprick light
reflections on the water
make me wonder
will we remember
the first of June,
the winter sun,
the day we sat outside
a café
in Akaroa?

Posted by fordy at 2:54 PM
Categories: About writing, Poetry