Poetry

When the wind comes howling in
From the south bringing Wellington
In on her wings.
And people wrap themselves up
With hurried words and a stolen glance.
When the sea meets the rocky beach
And puzzles soft feet with
Bitter sharp.
And friends are met briefly at five o’clock.
And everyone is a train ride home at
Twenty three minutes past five.
Where the minister’s words are replaced
By children hidden in
Shaking houses on broken hills.
And the only people left to witness the night
Are the beggars, who too
Have been humbled by
A chorus of gales.
That is my adopted home.