Ōtautahi in Winter – Donna Faulkner
beyond the sea,
past plains of buttered grass.
to valley roads
from craggy breath,
upon the updraft.
in Alpine crowns.
Beyond the vista
the city shivers.
Textures of Winter – Christine Reyes
June brings golden light, left over from the months of autumn as the earth meets the sun in an angle just so. Walk along the botanical gardens and watch it drape softly over the bareness and last vestiges of life. July exposes the snow-capped Southern Alps, dusted white from the distance, so close you can breathe the ice in like peppermint to the lungs.
Today, August billowed a sudden blast of warmth, a forceful wraith of the seasons ahead. Budding flowers stand at the ready.
The Coldest Winter In Thirty Years from Christchurch with Aroha – Steve Thomas
The coldest Winter in thirty years
The frosts have thrown the gauntlet down
Our sons have left for warmer seas
And Queensland where the skins are brown
Duranbah, Kirra, Snapper Rocks
Names and points that peel and peak
That crash upon the golden sand
And often pepper surferspeak
As Aussie legends rip the bag
Defy the surf’s cruel undertow
Riding waves as liquid glass
From pit to peak and down they go
To dance on yet another swell
With boards as thin as Arnotts biscuits
Crack another lip and float full forty metres
To say I ripped it!
Back in Brighton riding glass
It’s 8 degrees the ocean
As snowmelt fills the estuaries
And drifts along the coastline
Rubber suits, gloves, boots and hoods
Ice cream headaches pinch and plunder
Tourists stroll the pier
As snow powdered hills peep from under
Skies as blue as Elvis’ jeans
Towards a sea so grey and cold
So perfect is the South Island
A gem a jewel a stone to hold
A secret place, an empty land
The coldest one in thirty years
To whisper is to fix it now, just as it is
Preserved forever secret trails
That lured me here to live and love
But not to die, for that is Wales.
Winter Wait – Melanie McKerchar
they don’t let us burn things anymore
when the bite of ice grips the bones
making brittle comfort lost
smoke and sea-fog have danced together too long
pallid yellow bedspread on this city
sitting between ocean and alps
heat rises and only those on rungs
higher than this gasp with joy
at the grandeur of snow covered peaks
the chimney’s all fell with the city
and the fireplaces are bored
with the emptiness in their lives
and now we bundle apart fearing for our very breath
as night draws in early
painting the sky fire across plains
patch-worked for wealth we’ll never see
winter is cruel at the bottom
there’s only cold comfort to be had in beauty
Entry from Cris Fulton
Feel that cold pinch you,
Now you know you’re alive
See the sun rise pink, crimson,
white, orange, blue hues.
Is that the dust from the Australian desert,
tinting the majestic, snow capped peaks?
Or is it just the subtle bewitchment that
Ōtautahi has cast on you.
Feel that temperature in your body rise
as you stride forward on beach, in forest,
up mountain pathways,
there is beautiful astonishment
all around you, and nothing left to do
but go with the flow of Waimakariri
the wind of the norwester or the slow meander
of Heathcote and Avon.
This is the place,
the place to feel alive,
to strive and thrive
and no matter what
Te Waipounamu throws at you,
earthquake, tsunami, wildfires,
you will always know what to do
respect our mother and know
papatuanuku is looking out for you
Ōtautahi, Aotearoa, we love and honour you.
Mōrena Ōtautahi -Christine Cacot
You are my number one.
The city where I grew,
where I knew was home.
The best sunrise in the morning,
when day is dawning.
The cold,fresh frost,
never washed off my windscreen,
just made it clean.
Snowy mountain views
and blue skies,
were the highlight of a weekend drive.
A burst of colour.
Winter flowers huddle.
Their scent is reminiscent of sweet perfume,
in my room.
Bare trees with fallen leaves,
hide the light of the evening sun,
when day is done.
Evergreens,seen in the park,
Decorated with lights at night.
Walking in puddles,getting wet.
Being bold,shivering cold.
A hot bath was the aftermath.
Not just a few, but many winters I knew.
My memories are in poetry,
stories of old, told long ago.
A photo or two, refreshingly new.
I’ve long since gone.
I’ve moved on,
to new lands and places.
Familiar faces mean I’ll come back
to the cold, the breeze
and the clarity of a winter’s scene.