A collection of my autobiographical poems |
Dear Kåre, I thought of you today as I wandered Albert Park. You reminded me there was a poem in the sparrows as they darted through the foliage. Drab and common, but cute and curious. They remind me of me. Today, they reminded me of you. A constant rustling accompanied my footsteps as thrush played in the collection of autumnal leaves abandoned at the base of the deciduous trees. Not the natives though, they're vibrant and green, confident in a temperate climate. There's a rimu, drooping like a weeping willow, but with more attitude in its sturdy, spiked leaves. A man sleeps on the grass, his bag pillowing his head as the shade s l o w l y rotates around him. Further up the path, roots sprawl across the ground like gnarled fingers, loops and twists creating pockets I imagine are perfect for ruru. The park benches are mostly full, teenagers from Auckland Uni or adults on their lunch breaks. I'm stereotyping, but I'm a writer, so they're just archetypes, right? A statue commemorating some long gone fellow provides a perch for the ubiquitous pigeons. Ivy clings to a brick wall that has been standing longer than I've been alive (but maybe not as long as these trees). I walk beneath an oak which arches over the path, creating a mottled mosaic of sunlight and shadow. Some branches hang low and thick, inviting me to recall my youth and attempt a climb. It's years since I climbed a tree. You? The jangle of bells from the Town Hall tell me it's time to return to work, chiming once. Twice. As I walk toward the Victoria Street steps where I came in, I pass a man with his silver hair pulled back in a ponytail. I watch him watching the passersby. Maybe he's a writer too. And maybe even though you're far away, today part of you was in Albert Park. Free verse. Written 23 March 2021. Inspired by Kåre เลียม Enga |