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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 12, Issue 10 (January 1, 1938.)

New Zealand Verse

page 45

New Zealand Verse

The Gulls.

Through the darkness of the night
I heard the seagulls crying,
Echoing, eerie through the mist
Low on the headland lying.
There was neither moon nor star,
But fog wraiths bleakly flying,
And lonely through the lonely night
The sound of seagulls crying.
Low across the water
I heard their wild wings coming,
Vibrant through the silent night
In low, insistent drumming;
Mournful, deep and steady,
As wind through waste lands thrumming—
And low above the waters
The dark wings drumming, drumming.
There was neither moon nor star,
But fog wraiths bleakly flying,
Mist on hidden headlands
Coldly, dimly lying;
Only wings through darkness
Sweeping near, then dying …
And lonely through the lonely night
The sound of seagulls crying!

—Una Auld.

I Wonder.

I wonder if the quiet and distant ways, Of other days.
Led to that calm contented mind, We all would find;
Or if the longing eyes of men were cast Into the past
In search of that elusive thing, Content would bring.
I wonder if the folk that lived and died And laughed and cried,
And toiled and sorrowed in those distant days,
Thought on our ways;
And wondered if the future years would hold
Some glint of gold,
Some dream of earthly heaven surely blest,
Where men might rest.
I wonder if, when our time too has sped.
And we are dead;
Will those unnumbered people yet unborn.
For our day mourn,
With longing thoughts and glances backward cast,
Into the past;
Or seek the answer on the distant dim,
Eternal rim.

—Win. J. A. McKellow.

An Apple Tree.

Silvery mists of the morning—
Warm, soft lights of a pearl—
The exquisite flush adorning
Fair cheeks of a baby girl—
Deep rose of the day just ending—
Moon scintillating on sea—
Mystical, magical blending
Of colour—an apple tree.

—Hilda Small.

* * *

Cross-Roads Town.

Cross-Roads Town lies under the hill, along by the river bank,
Where the river-bed winds blow through the grass in whispers thin and lank,
Where the river licks the round white stones and the broken stranded spars
Of the bleaching drift of the mountain streams that lie by the white silt bars.
Cross-Roads Town has one long road that runs by the river side,
With verandah posts for hitching rails, and shade where the stray dogs hide.
With a clapboard hall, and straggling shops, and the coaching stable ranks
Where the mail-car men play poker, and the blacksmith's anvil clanks.
Oh, the old mail coaches sweep no more through drowsy Cross-Roads Town,
Where the river-bed winds blow through the grass that is thin and lank and brown,
But the old wheels roll in the storms that break on the white-splashed mountain roofs,
And the thunder that shakes in the river in spate is the thunder of galloping hoofs!

—Joyce West.

The Ferry.

We left “The Golden Fleece” behind.
Its doorway shot a festal glow
Into the darkness, and the mind
Bore freight of good will. It is so
When burghers gather at the end
Of conclaves where all hearts agree.
We walked the white road till the bend
Brought us to knowledge of the sea.
The sea that brooded in the night
Of things profound beyond our ken.
'Neath the still stars' compassioning light
We walked, two children and two men,
They in the van, we at their heels.
They talked of statecraft and of war,
Of banks and markets and of deals,
Those seigneurs grave who went before.
Behind us, where a salt marsh lay,
A lonely morepork's bitter cry
Made sweeter and departed day
That we had loved, that friend and I,
Dear enemy with whom I shared
The jests of childhood. In our ears
The rollers chanted as we fared,
And there did seem a truce to tears.
We hardly spoke at all, I think,
But trod the sand and sniffed the dark.
So came we to the estuary's brink,
And gave the call, and heard the barque
Put out. Like voices in a dream
The rowlocks chirrupped us as we stood
On its slow coming. It did seem
That God who made the night was good.

—C. R. Allen.

* * *

Autumn.

Paint brightly, for the Winter comes;
Paint brightly, make a festival
Of colour—–
On the domes
Of hills, spill brilliant gold and red,
And flame and crimson over all.
Paint gaily—berries, leaves and flowers
Must cheer the heart these fleeting hours
Before they fall….
Paint sunsets too, of rarest hue
Be lavish with these things; make gay
Each moment of the Autumn day.
Paint brightly, for the snows will come;—
Make splendid Autumn's harvest home.

—Olga P. Meyer.