I prefer paths worn to those laid out; the blending of grass from centre to edge by the passing of continual feet rivals the shading of Old Masters. Down these paths seed-head and flower brush calves, but don’t impede, because enough of us walk this way, descending with each unique promise. * The southern wind edges the waves moving across the bay; white lines of static flicker and vanish: a jumpy picture of turquoise-blue blotted with shadows from dampened clouds. Amidst the froth and crests of roughening seas, the birds in the distance race to a haven at the north end of Tokerau, where the sands curve behind the rocks marked with Kupe’s net. * The rain comes. It’s too much to stay exposed on the stone altar of a church, or in the circle of a henge. From the sea we must retreat. I look back at the dimpled sand; our footprints already fading. We turn into the gloom of leaf and frond, follow the path of pressed grass shimmering like a stream.
it’s 11.52 and I’ve long ago eaten my lunch of cheese and lettuce sandwiches. I could have added slices of tomato or cucumber, but then the bread gets soggy and wet bread is like cold jeans in the morning. sandwiches are a family heirloom passed down from my mother who always made them, with odd fillings too, like baked beans or lasagne. there aren’t as many sandwich eaters now; we’re all grown up with our credit cards and mortgages and lunches with rocket salad on the side. at university I bought nachos from the cafeteria once a week, served by Polynesian women who ladled mince and hot cheese sauce like a syrup over corn chips in a polystyrene bowl: a meal that sticks in the memory —and now I'm tempted by hot food from the pie warmer: the chips, the sausage rolls, the potato tops, the kranskies and deep-fried sushi. because if you’re going to buy lunch it should be hot and life can’t be all sandwiches in Tupperware containers.
We can’t get it right like Newton—we search for patterns to lay it down in best durable forms [laughter]: watch the sea deal with rocks, feel the sand between your toes. Does it matter that Antares can consume 663 trillion Earths? Monstrous weight, that can, if you like, be lifted by the work of bees: a miracle none foretold. Let’s say of art that it thinks differently about the shape of mushrooms we picked together on Saturday—we don’t know anything about them, except two hours of fun in paddocks: the biosphere and adventure ours. No one’s going nowhere but the infinity of our own creative purpose, arriving at a place unknown.