I wrote this poem last autumn. The first verse came to me as I was travelling past Hagley Park on my way to see my counsellor.
I’m still getting used to sharing my work with others, and I realised I had been holding this one very close to my chest. Trying to protect it from judgement.
And yet, it has been six months since my dog died, and this poem has been circulating in my head for days.
I believe he thought that I was brave, and perhaps this poem wants to be heard.
Christchurch, Ōtautahi
I think I will always associate this place
with mid to late autumn.
Dark, almost naked trees,
hanging on to their last amber jewels,
like they were ‘Chanel’ schooled.
I was born here, you know.
Not where I now reside.
Further to the east,
the daughter of a taxi driver
and his teenage bride.
My dog saw a ghost along the river.
He raised his hackles in the fog.
Near the town hall and the fairy fountain.
The one I remembered from decades before.
Where I went to school means
I will always be an outsider.
But I have never felt more at home.
I didn’t think financial stability
had the power to be this grounding.
Especially in a place so shaken.
We arrived once the rebuilding had started.
An ever-changing landscape
with people still unsettled.
