On the river it seemed it was always late afternoon,
summer, and quiet. Our oars clunked in their rowlocks,
willows trailed green streamers on a perfect surface
reflecting our drifting through suburban gardens
in lovely hats, as if all life were a poem
composed in Edward’s England and enacted
dreamily here at the farthest reach of his Empire.
Oaks, playing fields, the spire of Christchurch cathedral,
and the Port Hills – I could see it all from a tree
behind our house. How thrillingly more-than-English
our visitor declared! But when I looked to the north
across forty miles of the Plains on a clear day
the Southern Alps stared back, white in the sun.
To see so far – it was frightening. This wasn’t England.
It was then I decided everything was unreal –
everything but the theatre. It was all theatre,
and they in far places, the great executors
of the world’s will – they didn’t know they were players!
The Alps spoke to me, beautiful, hard and cold
against that blue which goes up and away for ever.
I answered as I could, in the language of Shakespeare.