Storm Bird out in the roads. Must we wait
till morning for news and mail? My editor father
and the port health officer sail a dinghy out.
Just five years old, I crouch quiet in the stern.
I remember vastness of plains and air like a window
that let you see them. Nothing happened, it seemed,
nor ever would, except that into our harbour
ships brought stories of cities, wars and crimes.
The port-holes shine, mysterious caves of light.
A shout to us from the deck, solemn over water –
what does it mean? – ‘Death of the Prince Consort.’
‘The Queen’s husband has died,’ my father whispers.
A year later with six hundred children I walked
through muddy streets of Christchurch. It was to honour
the Prince of Wales’ wedding. Did anyone speak
of war in Taranaki? Not that I remember.