^{Hauparu Bay, Lake Rotoiti}

1

Here I am, an old woman, sitting alone 
on an outside chair in Maoriland.

There is a faint banging in the bush 
as if a human being is hammering in 
a small post.

The old boat shed still stands, long 
and picturesque under the hanging trees.

There is no reason to be here. Ancestors 
must have carried us—assorted seeds 
in a small bag—to hold them on course 
during the voyage. 

 

2

No wonder I love the lake. 
So many little lines on it 
and they’re all moving.

The bloke who cannot live 
without noise is revving up the motor 
on his hydroplaning boat. The light 
on the red upturned dinghy is 
blinding and beautiful. From the shore 
the small lines keep coming 
towards me on the diagonal 
making honeycomb shapes on the sand. 
His boat is the loudest I’ve ever heard. 
It is tested in and out of the water. 
It is tested for hours. 
Through the honeycomb a small swell, 
parallel to the shore, rises and falls 
telling another, legendary, story. 

 

3

                        ^{for Max (1935–2013)}

The lake is a theatre 
of human transformation.

The willow hangs over the water 
but is not weeping and the cloud 
—at first a yippee hand— 
has found its true nature: flower.

Nothing seems to be missing. All 
is not lost. The kayaks are lying 
face down in the shade 
like neat coffins. No need to fret 
since kids are coming over the stream 
towards us, picking hydrangeas 
for the weekend hui. All is well. 
The lake itself is a well. Wish, 
with every gesture that you can, 
for its well-being 
in the comedy and tragedy 
of water-borne life. 

 

4

Off and on something is tapping 
like a swift 
talented hand on a drum.

Perhaps it is a blade of flax.

The wind spells disorder 
but the flax 
has its measure. Rhythm itself 
might be the one thing 
never lost.

The wind is as edgy 
as a depleted earth. I shift 
my chair from place to place 
at the unsheltered end 
of the unsheltered bay.

The bay. Curved as neatly as if 
by a pencil in a compass. 
All the jetties unperturbed, 
the lake flattened, swept, lit; 
light doing what light does. 

 

5

His younger mates, and the whole bay, 
are the audience for his noise. 
I’ve had a word with him. 
We all have our own interests, 
he said. I agreed. And his mates nodded. 
They were sitting in the boat. 
But some are noisier than others, I said, 
thinking of poetry, how quiet it can be. 
Then he told the story of the cyclist 
who—on their way down from Auckland— 
had hogged the middle of the road as if 
he owned it. My God. His mates nodded. 
I thought of my quiet son 
on his quiet road bike. 

 

6

Keep your eye and mind 
on the lake. The little puffs of cloud 
over the far side are like the breaths 
of a small girl on an icy morning. 
But it is summer. No wind. 
The bloke is hurtling around 
on a drive-on mower.

The tree fern on the lawn 
is on the lean 
with a sturdy rata on its trunk. 
It is leaning into the absent wind 
like a cyclist into a gale. It is leaning 
towards the jetty, towards the lake 
and towards the headland.

I’m heading that way too. 
Meanwhile—the lake has the calm 
of a dark, enlightened mind:

nothing appears to be broken,

everything settled is fragile,

nothing seems likely to break.