A great war, my country sending young men –
a nephew, a niece’s husband, sons of friends –
and all my commerce still with canvas and paint.
To a woman committed as I, which matters most,
Art, or this conflict? Seagulls under my window
articulate the quarrel I have with myself.
Last week I watched a young New Zealand woman,
a writer, I’m told, whose brother died in France.
She was struggling into the wind. I wanted to say
‘Go home! The cost is too high’ – but who am I
to give advice I never would have taken?
We smiled vaguely as strollers used to do
on Lambton Quay – everyone someone’s friend,
or friend of a friend. I know she was thinking of home.
Strange, but I go on seeing this empty building
as my father’s office. If I shut my eyes and sniff
I see the wooden goods-lift with its tarred ropes.
Out there the sea is unreal, like liquid metal;
the wind a ‘Wellington’ wind – everything flying –
yet not the same. Rudderless birds dash by
as I walk along the seafront. I shield my head.
But the voice of the sea at night is universal –
it takes me across the world. Not far from here
there’s a woman making her name as a painter –
Anne says she’s from New Zealand. We pass in the street.
It gives me courage to see her, but we don’t speak.
Could I talk to her of my ‘undiscovered country’ –
or of my only brother, buried in France?