The edge of the Coromandel Peninsula (free verse poem)

The distinctive cry of gulls
provides a familiar counterpoint
to the low murmur of
salt-scented waves.
Splashes of white decorate
water that leans more toward teal
than the Pacific Blue that
carries its name.
We steal a mental snapshot
as State Highway 25 carries us
around the next corner,
and the next,
imagining
this is how it will remain,
preserved as in our memories,
yet it changes
even as we watch.

Winter in Auckland

Landmarks slide in and out of the fog.
Dancing behind a vaporous veil,
landmarks slide in and out of the fog.

The sea spits mouthfuls of frothy ale,
like an oil painting I once saw,
dancing behind a vaporous veil.

Gulls tumbling above the waves screech and caw
as the wet wind tosses them to and fro
like an oil painting I once saw.

The sodden remnants of autumn’s glow
cling desperately to clammy concrete
as the wet wind tosses them to and fro.

The whistle past my ears, on repeat,
as fat droplets of water bunch and
cling desperately to clammy concrete.

A soft focus scene, dreary and bland,
landmarks slide in and out of the fog
as fat droplets of water bunch and
landmarks slide in and out of the fog.