Strange flowers and shrubs, nice lawns, a big flame-tree
planted by Governor Grey; a Georgian façade
all wood, but well-designed in the eighteen-fifties
to look like stone; French windows opening on a terrace –
this is Government House, Auckland. Daylight brings word
of a frightful event: the lake in a mountain crater
broke out and flooded a river which in turn destroyed
a viaduct just as the night express passed over.
One hundred and fifty dead. My Christmas broadcast
is being redrafted. This morning a children’s choir
sang in the garden. My standard is flying half-mast.
A Father Christmas is waiting down below
sweating in his flannel and fur. I talk to Mother
long-distance. She says it’s cold, but no sign of snow.