Milford Sound
New Zealand.
The ice on the cake here next to the lake,
is mist falling in ribbons of light,
the greens and the greys and far purple haze,
blend with rainbows that reach out of sight.
Then there’s a tunnel, black, damp and dripping,
sliding down deep river ravines,
ghosts remain there of the men that worked her,
with picks shovels tween beeches and pines.
The trees dance to the tune of cold breezes,
in eddies that reach past moraines,
of the tracks left by ancient glaciers,
carved out by the winds and the rains.
At the port, the ships whir into action,
and head out of the fjords to the sea,
where the swell runs in a parallel line
and albatross swoop high, low, and free.
Waterfalls are dropping like lacework,
whipped up by the icy winds of the day
and shower fresh faces gazing,
at the elixir of fine mountain spray.
The custodians built an underwater station,
for viewing silver fern coral in sprays
and fish of glorious colours
whirling in the deep watery haze.
The glacial caps tell the story,
landslides captured on Kodachrome,
then, a long meandering car journey,
takes us back to our temporary home.
©
David Rudder
2024
Thank you for reading this piece and my poetry.
