Writing in Whangarei


Hooded watchman mocking my late arrival,
Statuesque, you play the apparent mute, sat
Fast on pagan stoas of post and wire frame
Wrapped in the half-light.

Tell me, how has history left you less than
Sacred, Grecian pedigree overlooked for
Crueller lines, your plumage unfit to join the
Caucus of chief’s cloaks?

Do the favoured, sensing the zeitgeist, choose a
Hand through which to parley, or is the muse’s
Song an echo, haunting a young Narcissus
Flush with his own voice?

That your mortal beauty is witnessed by this
Cynic’s eye is likely no consolation
For seductive fantasies fixed like pylons
Flaunting a king’s might.

-Aaron Robertson


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s