Mountains

When mountains
Fall in love,
They attract
A swirling mist.
Then those mountains 
Lean together
And, while no one looks, 
they kiss.

Alan Bagnall

Gold Seeker

"Gold be where it be," the old man said.
The young boy scratched his head.
"So where do I look?" he frowned and asked.
"Look where it be," the man said.
"But how do I know where the gold will be?"
"If we knew, we'd fill every pan.
Some strike it rich and others miss out.
Gold be where it be," said the man.

Pauline Cartwright

Hokianga Hill

Boy in a red shirt,
white-horse riding,
under a hard blue sky.

Hoofs swish swash
through green grass waving,
golden buttercups,
white yarrow bending.

Over the saddle,
a sick lamb slung,
head nod-nodding 
to the horse's rhythm.


	Maureen Doherty

On Christmas Eve, 1953, one hundred and fifty-one Auckland-bound 
travellers lost their lives in a terrible train accident now known as The 
Tangiwai Disaster.  A flood of mud and water from Mount Ruapehu's 
crater lake was responsible.  Jillian Sullivan's grandmother, Lilian, was 
one of the passengers on the train that night.  


On the Train to Tangiwai

All night, the river wept,
moving in its dream world state.
All night, the train approached the bridge 
while Lilian slept.

As she woke and shifted in her space,
she thought of Christmas, turned,
and caught her smile in the glass –
the last time she would see her face.

For all night long, the mountain stirred,
the crater broke,  
and mud swept down – a lahar bound
for Tangiwai.

Lilian thinks of family, gifts,
of how the tree will look, what they will eat.
But water takes the bridge, and only one man sees 
too late the treacherous rift.

And there, as Lilian dozes, sleeps again, 
fury explodes in water, bridge, rock, train –
the detonating of so many dreams, 
the hopeless collision of nature and machine …

The river slides by now, as ever,
the mountain broods, another song to sing.
And on my finger, I wear 
Lilian's ring.

		Jillian Sullivan

