POETRY KITe ANTHOLOGY

The Pines

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I remember you driving the corniche past The Pines from Island Bay to Lyall Bay.

I was visiting from Australia, you had invited me to a party, it was dull. In spite of

the people toking in an upstairs room. I stood to dance and you hissed - Sit down!

The tattooed men who were arriving took a woman dancing on her own as an open

invitation. I sat down and whined that I wanted to go home.

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As you ground the gears I became aware you had been upstairs and the green was

messing with your mind. The car was rocketing, lurching, hurtling. I glanced down

at Breaker Bay and in the extremity of my fear spoke as your older sister - I know

you THINK!!! you are driving slowly but you are actually driving very very fast.

You rolled a disbelieving eye, but slowed, above the cliff.

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The party got out of hand and men were fighting in the street, swinging bike chains.

The Armed Offenders Squad took up positions in yards on the hills above, locked it

down. But we had got home with a final lurch and left the car parked askew, ajangle.

But that is all by the by, it had been in my mind. As if it was my only memory of you.

Today you fly in from Australia for a funeral at The Pines.

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The son of your best friend was driving around in cars and came to grief as so many

of the young boy racers do. Our father and our mother would go to the cabaret there,

there at The Pines. The men secreted liquor in the women's beaded evening bags or

under their fur wraps. I remember one of the outfits our mother put together. A long

black pleated skirt and a 'broidered weskit in red and gold.

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I think of you at the funeral at The Pines, a mother now, someone who has survived.

I would have gone with you, it would have been fitting, and apt, but through a friend

of a friend a private viewing of local artworks had been set up at almost the same time.

And I chose that. Because those local artworks are what have always saved me. From the dying fall.

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# posted by June Clitheroll : 3:17 AM