A CHRISTCHURCH AUTUMN
Oblique light stoops to
eavesdrop.
The weather has been
reading Keats.
Trees are conflagrations
on dank air,
burning like naptha, dropping
leaves
in Byzantine mosaics on
grey asphalt.
The season suits the city,
as does hope’s
bitter discontent.
Wind-tunnel streets
lined with frozen rainbows
of parked cars
Leaf-drifts provide a
draping of relief
from cracks and rubble,
earthquake’s fault.
Stop, pause, ponder,
rethink, regroup
while catching breath, he
contemplates,
makes a mental note. He
tarries
over the fading perfume of
forgotten faith.
His shoulders
infinitesimally wilt.
Umbrellas haemorrhage out
of bat shape.
In the Botanic Gardens the
blades
of shadow lengthen on the
sundials
and as the grey lid comes
down, evaporate.
Cars hustle, as if afraid
of getting wet.
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