Requiem for Christchurch

Earthquakes destroy the past.

I never thought I would live
long enough to witness
the end of my city
but Tuesday lunch time, a cold grey day,
the earth, like a hunting cat, pounced.
We tossed and tumbled,
with our houses see-sawing under us.

Initally, our city was built
on a swamp; when the earth
split open, water and silt
bubbled out through the cracks,
pot-holing pavements and roads.

The cathedral, where we prayed
to God, that same cathedral
collapsed one wall and its spire
on to unwitting passers-by.

Yet it is quite surreal;
my garden is still a wonderland,
even though half a block away,
everything is in disarray.

I mourn for the lost, the maimed, the dead.
I mourn for our grieving city.

Wonderland

My outer life is taking on
the quality of a dream:

I live in a tree-walled garden
filled with bird song,
a black and white rabbit
zipadees around and around;
a rose, hemmed in by a mock orange
and a Japanese honeysuckle,
spindles itself higher and higher
until it ventures
one vibrant orange flower.


If death is akin to sleep,
please can I keep on dreaming.