Beyond Colville, Up Coromandel Poem by Dr Ronnie Bai

On a purring
quad bike
sits astride
an elderly lady
radiating a glamorous gleam
far superior
to that of any starlets across the Pacific Ocean
on that Beverley Hill
aiming to outshine
all the rest on the big screen
and out of her quivering
crimson lips unadorned
borne adrift
a soft melodious tune
spell binding
her baby Hereford and Frasian white faces
whose infrequent mowing contentedly
joining the gentle
frothy surfs of crystal blue sea
lapping around giant boulders
resplendent and smooth and solid
strewing the vast stretch of the coastline
that falls
precipitous
away
from the meandering
metalled single carriage way
shouldered by flagging flaxes
flaunting their hardiness
into the face of the temperamental gulf shunning
the envious city
almost entirely obliterated
over the horizon in blurred nightly
glimpse of
faint
flickering glow.

Here lives she
in a little cottage
up on a gentle slope
at the foot of the Coromandel range
nestled amongst lush native bushes and
embraced by bouncers of cycad tall standing
unruffled by the unrelenting winds
rolling down the steeple valleys futilely
to smooth the swells of the surging sea
and indifferent to the furtive swarms of sand flies
bent on tightening their venomous bloody besiege
for at this incredible crib
forever could she sip
the celestial bubbly brew
down the intoxicating mountain pub of stream
forever could she entertain
herself daily
and her quests coming annually
to the classical variety show
of ballerinas of pukeko
of the arias of the tui soprano
and dine complimentary of the house
run by the denizens of deep
residing among kelps richly brown
close to rock ledges around

Here she is
tending her herd of calves
as she policies them around for new ground
grazing green grass
along the solitary road
bonded with the bonsai of canopying
pohutukawa beauteous enough to blot out
all pageant queens
probably tempting enough to her half a century ago
when she would not have had for a long time
to bemoan
the lack of a thronging crowd of enthralled young men
jostling against each other for a peck
on one of her commanding hands
now still soft and soft enough
one of which conducts a twig
and on the steering handle rests the other
coaxing a couple of mischievous calves
persistent in going astray
to join the front saunterers disappearing
around the bend
into a fence gate grabbed wide open
in the hands of an old swarthy man.