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On the road to the bay was a lake of rushes
Where we bathed at times and changed in the bamboo,
Now it is rather to stand and say:
How many roads lead us Nowhere,
The alley overgrown, no meaning now but loss:
Not that garden where everthing comes easy
And by the bay were cliffs with carved names
A hut on the shore beside the maori ovens.
We raced boats from the banks of the creek
Or swam in those autumnal shallows
Growing cold in amber water, riding logs
Upstream, waiting for the taniwha
Growing cold in amber water, riding logs
Upstream, waiting for the taniwha.
So now I remember the bay and the little spiders
We found on driftwood, so poisonous and quick.
The carved cliffs and the great outcrying surf
With currents round the rocks and birds rising.
A thousand times an hour is torn across
And burned for the sake of going on living.
But I remember the bay that never was
And stand like stone and cannot turn away.
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