NZ tings

in

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium [NEW ZEALAND’S SOUTH ISLAND]

Insp. Sailing to Byzantium, W.B. Yeats.

Here’s what I captured.

Lovely girls.

Anguilla Australis

in

A poem by me

Wading in the warm,

Eucalyptus-stained water,

A slippery creature,

Slides by my ankles.

 

The skin she touched burns,

Hot and aggravated.

Like a sudden rash,

Inflamed by interest.

 

My arms begin to play

A fervent game of tug of war,

The waters’ surface,

My opponent.

 

The quicksand beneath me,

Has picked its side,

Pulling my toes,

Scheming to trawl me.

 

Neptune’s string,

Simmers around me,

Budding ubiquitously,

Threatening suffocation.

 

To tease me twice,

My soles are skimmed,

By the same beast,

Slightly smaller.

 

Mania spews from my fingertips,

As I feverishly dive below,

Snatching at the stream,

Open-eyed, spluttering brine.

 

Finally clutching the slimy body

Of a Southern short-finned eel.

cover image from pinterest.

no byline? material is sourced from various locations. whenever available I will acknowledge the creator so if you see your photo let me know and I will give you a byline.