The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 11, Issue 9 (December 1, 1936)
New Zealand Verse
New Zealand Verse
Waitaki.
1
Broadly the valley rolls towards the hills,
Bosoms the farms oblivious of the sea,
Rolls towards ramparts of ridges, home of the hawk,
Hills not to be won by laboured patient hooves
At plough—harrow only of frost
May score these steep ravines, crumble these rocks.
Here wander the weathered flocks, makes home
The hardy rabbit, tussock grown wind-weary.
Ah, here's no happy farm feathered with wheat,
No farmyard hen scratching familiar earth,
No friendly light to warm a traveller's eye.
—The hills lie watchful, massed against attack,
Guarding their only gift, their solitude.
And where the spurs are dark and closely ranged
Water in urgent fury leaps the rocks,
Turbulently raids the smiling plain.
Making mountain war, here river wandered
With no easy gait or broad assurance.
Harrowed and narrowed, mountainpent, rock-locked,
Tunnelling the high hill's heart, scouring at clay,
Torn waters snouted earth, roared in ravine,
Swung potently against the fathomed bluff.
2
Stronger than this, eyes' focussed wedge
Laid bare the river's bed, measured the mountain,
Mortared the shattered rock, and built the dam.
3
Moon now hangs white over the altered scene
Where stars reflect themselves and nightbound bird
Dips as the wavelets lap low island mounds.
The traveller's heart lifts at enchanted change,
Chance product of the purposed search for power.
Making new contours, drowning tree and crop,
Filling the empty air between the hills
With quiet inundation, lies the lake.
The peace of water settles over the stern hills.
4
Slow water sails towards a blinding brink,
One moment at the brink timeless it hangs,
Creams over the lip, carpets the smooth slope,
Joyously leaps, and—shattered, troubled air
Trembling with music where the blown spray hangs—
Thunders to freedom in the stormy pool.
5
The dynamos deep-seated there
Give joy its tongue, and fill the rainbow air
With high contented song:
To them belong
The sluicing waters' powers
And unfold endless hours
As flood feeds day and night
Insatiably their appetite.
Nerve-centre of the wire
Is keyed like lyre,
Its insulators like notes on high
Of some great fugue written across the sky.
From here the wire goes leaping dale and hill
On pylons of latticed and singing steel.
6
Here on the broken earth small houses perch
And nursling trees, and small transplanted flowers
Precariously root in trampled clay.
Dust-drowned by swaying cars township knows heat,
And frost in winter, bitter mountain wind.
But always water thunders from the brink,
The harnessed races give their singing power,
Unwinking lights keep watch upon the dark,
And after nightmare journey through the hills
The river smoothly slides away to sea.
Christmas-Aotearoa.
Noontide.
Bethlehem is far away.
A dusty roadway twists and turns
And then sweeps backwards on its way.
A mid-day sun is here and burns
All green things brown, all brown things grey.
To tune of bark and crack of whip
Down the white road go many sheep
Dirty of coat and slack of lip,
With dazed red eyes half wild for sleep.
The heat is bending bush and tree,
The birds are languid as the flowers.
Loved clematis has bent the knee
Humbled before the marching hours.
Red rata too has lost her gleam
And shines but faintly midst the leaves;
The creek's a muddy sluggish stream
O'er which a listless willow grieves.
Eventide.
The road, still winding up and on
Over the bare, brown endless hills
Is empty now. The sheep are gone,
And slowly silence comes and fills
The trees, the hills, the hour, the day
With something far more sweet than sound.
While on the sky-line far away
A filmy saffron veil is found.
And slowly now the sun goes down
And gradual shade with gentle hand
Soothes with a smile the fretful frown
And brusque hot-temper of the land.
Across the stubbly, log-strewn grass
A horse is freed from bit and goad
And now a wearied man may pass
Across the field, along the road.
A star is shining bright and clear,
A gate is reached, a voice is heard.
A child is held and counted dear—
Across the valley sings a bird—
And Bethlehem seems very near.
The Forest.
There is sunshine in the valley where the bright river flows;
There is shadow in the forest where the cool fern grows,
And the sounds of the market cease;
And the gifts of the valley the whole world knows—
But the gift of the forest is peace.
There is laughter in the valley where the children play;
There is stillness in the forest where the tree-ferns sway
And the soft breeze sinks to sleep;
And the joys of the valley are swift and gay—
But the joy of the forest is deep.
There is labour in the valley, unto good—and ill;
There is rest in the forest, and the air's athrill
With a hush where angels trod;
For the soul of the valley is the blind world's will—
But the soul of the forest is God.
Preferences.
You choose the ocean's steady roar,
The cry of gulls, salt-scented air,
White sand pressed firm beneath your feet,
A salt breeze blowing through your hair.
While I turn ever toward the land,
Fragrance of hay and winding streams,
Orchard and wood and leafy lane:
These are the substance of my dreams.
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A glimpse of historic Akaroa, South Island, New Zealand.
(
H. C. Peart photo.)