Poetry

 Narrow neck Beach

Sand. Not good sand but sand anyhow.

A perfect day

Clear blue water

Browns Island, a green jewel in the distance.

Nearby across the water Majestic Rangitoto.

A magical faraway place

Walking across the concrete

Hard on old feet that are soft.

Down the boat ramp to the cold cold sea 

Old Age

Sliding down a mountainside.

Unable to slow the pace down the slope

Towards a cliff and the unknown 

Not our time any more

Seeing society as through a piece of glass

Disconnected 

Days of dial telephones

And cars with manual gearboxes

Letters with stamps on

Days when at work all 

You needed was a pen and paper

Gone

Body and brain

Ever more faulty

The Rocket

At Boca Chica

A clear blue sky 

No wind

In the distance

A cylindrical metal tower stands 

Next to a spidery Tower beside it.

On the side of the cylindrical tower 

Is condensation indicating.

Something very cold within.

On the side, a small pipe 

streams out a plume of white cloud of vapour.

Somewhere, there is a chant:

Five, four, three,two,one.

A spray of water emerges from the base of the tower 

Just as flames ignite it holds for perhaps

1/2 of a second, then as the clamps unlock it leaps into the air.

If we were nearby on the ground,

Surely we would feel the ground shake.

But from this distance all we can hear.

Is the crackle of the engines as the ever accelerating rocket

Rises majestically into the atmosphere.