The Christchurch Test
Around the empty caskets her father
piled trunks, till that crossing was a buried
thought. In the breathing room before another
carriage of belongings he wrote of
Anchorage, the hours stowing sails below
deck with her brother. He never saw clouds
this swift, rushing through a haka – his England
eclipsed by shadows. Through the bodies of
water the crowd appears to be sailing.
It carries her back to the start at the end
of her gangway, to her father not budging,
maybe hoping the weather would change
her mind. About him all those trunks were
fastened. To say nothing of what's inside.