O LITTLE TOWN OF LYTTELTON
For Anke Richter
Well
of souls chaliced in
its
gothic rampart of hills
fit
for Walpurgisnacht
when
the pewter
lid
comes down.
Weatherboard
villas,
limpet
shacks,
occasional
modernist intruders,
lean-to
kitchens
and
vertical driveways
in
some impossible,
gravity-defying
Escher
woodcut,
while
down in the crater
shipping
crates perform
like
Georgian dancers
to
a diesel thrum
and
heated conversations
in
Russian and Korean.
A
port is welcome,
passive
and receptive,
a
Narnia at the back of
Christchurch’s
wardrobe.
A
port is glasnost,
our
diplomatic
accommodation
with
the coastline-
chewing
sea.
Previously published in Quietus: Observations of an Altered City, Analogue House, 2012.
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