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My last for the month. Fell behind due to school holidays and my daughter but finishing on a nice note. Like a song that fails to find the tonic this feels like it does not resolve, but I kind of like that. As yet untitled.
The storm unleashes its sorrows.
Arduous the struggle to hold fast.
Bait no longer secure wharf side
finds its way in pocket.
The season, dry and fruitless.
Following in Ahabs footsteps,
this peir has become my bowsprit
and my final stand.
My whale, the kahiwai.
Few else brave these waves.
Farming carrots not an option,
cod south for the cold,
too shallow for kingi,
and snapper, no shelter.
I feel the contempt as I'm spat on.
Tangaroa warning I don't belong.
But to leave now, to give up,
without tribute.
To return with a slack line
would be condemnation,
a messure of my worth
and stubbeness.