photo: Motueka, Sandspit, forging your path, the best you can
If I were a story
I would be my own
I wouldn’t copy that
of the great flamboyant ones
it would be very simple
of that I am sure
and difficult too
obviously
like walking in the middle of the night
in an uncertain forest
on rough paths
but it would be mine
and mine it would stay
photo: a garden as I love them, Pohara, Golden Bay
if I were a garden
I would be of stones and wild grass
I would not change
with the seasons
I would host a bench
where prayers would be murmured,
or words and wishes
and also lovers’ oaths
photo: a path leading to Ligar Bay, considered as one of the very beautiful beaches of Golden Bay
if I were a path
I would lead to the beach
all year round
but especially in summer
I would spy on the children
I would like their games
and then the confidences
of the older ones
whispered, sneered at,
I would listen to them
and protect them
if I were the wind
I would live on the coast
I would invent waves
surging
on the hot sand
I would sculpt the dunes
I would lean the trees
people would love me in summer
and would hate me in winter
If I were a path I would be dirt
I would push through deep into the forest
I would never have everyone at once and
my guests would come only one at a time
