The cabbage trees stand in line like little soldiers, they are so unique, as if each one was developing a singular personality, Tata beach
…like that day when a familiar face appeared on someone else’s face. Ghost? Hallucination? Premonition? The stories align, integrate into the chaotic flow of time passing in gusts of wind, in sandstorms, or slowly like a young seagull that has not yet learned to cross the street.
photo: path leading to Wharariki Beach, Golden Bay
We would live there
in the hollow of the valley
to protect ourselves from the world
we would go out sometimes
to visit the solitary tree
upright like wisdom
in sunshine and in rain
we would read its inclinations in its leaves
we would sense life beneath the bark
we would say thank you, though we did not know to whom
photo: I’ve never seen a cabbage tree I didn’t like and the more the better, Christchurch, New Brighton reserve
you made so much noise
around my ancient faults
maybe you would have done better
to get through your own night
photo : je n’ai jamais vu un « cabbage tree » que je n’aimais pas et plus il y en a, plus je les aime, Christchurch, réserve de New Brighton
vous faisiez tant de bruit
autour de mes fautes anciennes
peut-être auriez-vous mieux fait
de traverser votre propre nuit
photo: Paton’s rock, Golden Bay, the « cabbage trees » as well as many New Zealand trees, stretch out in the sky taking all kinds of poses, they would be mistaken for ghosts without too much difficulty, at certain times of the day.
Of course, in the light of day, we recognized them, but when the clouds covered the sky, when the storm was brewing or the dusk was setting in, we were no longer certain, we saw shadows, angels, soldiers, warriors, enemies, ghosts of whom we made legends, formidable stories that would fill our history.
