Wednesday, 13 April 2016
the key (poem)
old doors in front of the Cobb and Co. stables, Port Chalmers
Port Chalmers as it was in the 1860's
is still easy to find even now. Hinted at
in the rugged, wooden doors in front
of the old Cobb 'n' Co stables,
in the wide slope down to the harbour
and in the style of the buildings still standing.
It all reeks of the past. I can almost smell it:
the salt and fish, the smell of bread baking,
horse droppings and mouldy straw. I imagine
my great-grandparents (six in all at different times)
standing there in this same hostile nor 'easterly
testing all our intentions to linger.
I want to photograph the stone church
with the red door. A local out walking
sees me with my camera, says he has the key,
opens the doors, lets us in.
The pipe organ, he says, will turn
one hundred years old tomorrow.
He's been here in Port for forty-five years,
was the Town Clerk once upon a time.
It's a great old place, he reckons. He'll never move
now. We watch him walk down the hill,
his shoulders bent, his feet slow to lift off
the path, his head bowed towards the harbour.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
Made it. Caught up. About twenty poems to go (yet to count up the exact number).
I cannot believe how fast time is going this year.
Time is a major theme of mine,
The poem above is yet another on the subject.
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