The poem leads

The door swung hard shut

and with the day a blank sheet

I let my feet take me just

where, which was up at first

to climb above the cold shade

finding snaking Salamanca

infused with fumes of buses

and bustles of students

so I left the road and strode

across campus, feigning familiarity

with this strange university

then through to Kelburn

and the Upland Road.

Striding easy, I had planned

to return via Aro Valley

but instead surrendered

to the pull of the bush gully

down my right, quiet but

for an unseen stream

and the sweet creaks and gongs

of an unhinged tūī.

Following damp gravel tracks

around the contours of deep shade

I lost the arc in my mind

and suddenly stumbling into light

was perplexed to find

where the wilful poem had led.

Young people sitting

Streaked with a green patina of tears

accrued over years of open scrutiny

they sit not on a pedestal

in a celebrated square

but on low stools, by a leafy lakeside

walkway, leaning into each other’s spaces

her hands clasped in front seeming

to hold the secret of their bond

or its dissolution

his eyes draw down from a hand-cradled

face, perhaps not grasping

while hers attend unblinking

engaged, oblivious to the summer stream

of passing couples, walking

or cycling or wandering free.

Pursuing the Via Claudia Augusta to Italy

From Augsburg we ride in convoy south

guided by maps and cryptic words

with logos and arrows discovered on posts,

pedalling down gravelly tracks

and smooth sealed cycle paths,

then onto the bounce and bob

of cobbles and stones

with one eye grounded and one

free to roam the drifting scenes.

Here we path-find beside a stumbling

grey milk river, the full flow showing

that rain preceded our spell

of bright and blue,

past hard graft stone walls

and the soft of sunflower fields,

the pink and red of window boxes.

We try to not get too hung up by

crucifixes that abound in fields and towns

and onion-topped churches with their

garish murals, beautiful and horrific,

preferring the toll of bell-clangs

that dong the hour along,

marvelling at the faith and fears of

those who built castles on rocky crags

overlooking fertile valleys

we are not the first to invade.

This was a via of empire expansion

and for us, new horizons

as we cycle past vast orchards

with regimented rows of apple trees

upright as Roman columns,

under massive granite brows that frown

on our straggled caravan

as these mountains would have towered

over foot-sore soldiers of that

ancient empire, over men who had

no coffee, ice cream or strudel,

nor green arrows on posts to guide them.