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All day, brilliantly chill day where
no wind however small, from hilltop
above us anybody could look over
what’s otherwise faded distance into
distinct, ridge shapes away southerly
never before noticed, as well as what you might
forecast, intimate folds in the Moehau range,
faintly tender loom of islands summer does not
rave about.
                  We’re on a downslope, pocketed,
weedridden in manners which real estate agents
call ‘bush sections’. Over the fence
someone is burning; who wants to learn
nextdoor names? He has a fire out of sight.
Smoke rises through privet, matipo and willow strands.
It’s pleasant, that blue through suitable screens.
All day ash falls, flakes, just so big, lightly.
They don’t amount to anything, neither impose
nor disturb.
                  Are these documents or garden spoils
which are burning? Perhaps, only variously
wasted lives. If we were to see the faces would we
at all recognise them?
                                                                                      23. 7. 83
Editor's note
Perhaps Parable Perhaps Politics: first published in Stories About Wooden Keyboards; refers to the area round Alton Avenue, Northcote where KS moved in December 1980; Moehau: range of hills at northern tip of Coromandel Peninsula, visible from the North Shore
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