Day Trip, Makara

John Atkinson

Remember that dog, the spotted one,
who scratched his back along the wall
leaning like a drunk, then turned
and scratched his other side,
to ease the itchiness of hide
before ambling off,
The spray swept beach.
The stench of bait.
A row of cottages,
and then the gate
which we climbed over
instead of opening.

Remember the wind
cold and strong
roaring in your ears
on the ridge top.
And the lull
when we sidled
in the lee of the hill,
on sunlit grass, so still
we didn't really
believe it possible.

Remember the gun pits
nestled in the clay,
gaunt reminders of
a bygone day,
overlooking the strait.
And rolling rocks
or climbing trees,
The driftwood beach
and pounding seas
surging across the stones.

Music enough
to set one singing.