About security, they ask a lot –
old men, young women, the middle-aged;
we overlook the fact views turn
into prisons. Here twice daily
the mudflats come & go, the scene
clangs shut, you search in vain
for keys & mine are lost. What
can we unlock – the past, the pump,
the changing cells? A hacksaw would
only show the (waste) in the hourglass
& although tears pulverise both shores
they cannot always guarantee security.
In the late 1970s my first marriage broke up – a sad event for all concerned. This is a poem I wrote at the time recording the stress and the pain. The house I left was at Papakowhai overlooking the inlet across to Titahi Bay.
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