Barbara Strang: THE OMAUI ROAD

The grownups are behind a newspaper. Something is being decided. At 10.30 our family crams into the Morris 8, Mum, Dad and baby in the front, and three of us packed in the back with belongings. We start along the windswept road to Bluff, but soon turn down a rutted track. Before us lies a sea of speckled mud.

The road to Omaui is not a road at all—it lies across this inlet called the Mokemoke, usually full of water. But where has it all gone? It could come rushing back . . . in one huge wave, engulfing the Morris 8, and us. We whizz over the smooth surface, probably crushing thousands of crabs. Ever closer to mysterious Omaui Hill with the three weird bumps on top.

Some day they will build a proper road to Omaui, which will skirt the Mokemoke and thrust through the patch of bush. We will drive there on Sunday afternoons.

almost hidden
amongst flax bushes­—
the crib!

Note: “Flax”—the native harakeke, whose sword-like leaves can grow over six feet. “Crib”—Southern New Zealand dialect meaning holiday cottage

by Barbara Strang
Christchurch, New Zealand
first published in Kokako 6, 2007

Barbara Strang: SIGNS OF AGE

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I’m waiting on a hard seat in the little clinic behind the Outpatients Department. The others here are silver haired. One very old man droops in a wheelchair. He is thin and has long fingernails. That must be his daughter, who speaks about him to the attendant in a loud voice, as if he isn’t here.

new hearing aid
shocked by the sound
of my footsteps

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by Barbara Strang

Christchurch, New Zealand

first published in Frogpond, 2006

Barbara Strang: Be Careful

my mother calls as I run towards the rocks at the base of the lighthouse. It is unnecessary to warn me. Stirling Point is a splinter of land, aiming for Antarctica. The sea below bolts through the narrow gap to fill Bluff Harbour. I see a rusty spike of iron rising from the waves – Dad told me the skeleton of a ship lies below. Buoys mark the shipping channel. Once more I roll “buoy” around my mouth, and squint, trying to turn the weathered red drums into real live boys. One is making a human sound. Among the rocks I find a piece of green glass, worn smooth by the sea.

moaning buoy
my brother
casts a stone

by Barbara Strang

Christchurch, New Zealand

first published in Yellow Moon, 2006