The Rag-Picker's Daughter

I saw the rag-picker's daughter
in a dream
crossing the bridge near Mangere

it seemed
a graffitti gauntlet would envelop us
as the train sped onwards

carriages connected, shackled
a steel grey moon reflecting
the winter tracks ahead

Winter

in the season of hot oatmeal
the blackbirds outside
plough the bark for slugs

a grey fog lifts it clammy hand
and an inside dew clings to the
metal frame of windows

away in the valley the snort of horses
shivering with their canvas blankets
flaring nostrils
a huddle of equine locomotives

grey papa cliffs rise behind the weatherboard house
a smoking chimney greets the day

The Dry Season

The air was still and steamy
and my clothes were damp and dank
not a breath of wind was stirring
while the drains beside me stank

Just a plaintive throaty warbling
ahigh the pong pong tree
the dry season's come a'calling
for the bird as much for me

The fumy buses passing
by the shelter where I stand
I wave in desperation
with make shift fan in hand

The dry seasons come a'calling
to the Queenstown MRT
I stand upon the platform
just my plastic card
and me