Bathurst, New South Wales, New Year’s Eve –
the eve of 1840 – I, a Scottish doctor,
in my bed at the inn, the clock striking midnight,
assigned convicts dancing to a horrible fiddle,
their feet scraping the floor as if their ankles
were still in chains, their voices harsh against sleep.
So far from home, I dreamed of travelling further.
Hauraki Gulf, New Zealand. Natives paddle us
towards Waitemata, chanting as they go
a song about the Pakeha come to exchange
blankets and guns for land, who will build a house
if the chief Ngapora assents, and whose soft heart
is seized by the beauty of the maiden Kora.
‘Tena kumea!’ they chant. Our canoe drives forward.
Today we crossed the isthmus to the western harbour.
Kumara on woven flax, pipi hot from the hangi –
these were our welcome, and talk of land for sale.
Sunset fired the slopes. I felt a city
growing inside me, reflected in these waters.
Not guns, not blankets – dreams are our secret power.