Wind Without

Art, Poetry


There is a wind blowing outside,
Whipping the treetops to a frenzy of motion.
In the background, the kettle whistles,
Gently boiling,
Oblivious to the storm.
All actions seem empty
as I sit with myself,
toying with vagrant ideas.
My own company has become,
But there are no angels here
to fill the void.
I have spring cleaned my soul,
casting the debris from my mind.
But now I realise
that sometimes a cherished illusion,
is far nicer
than a bleak truth.
The wind is blowing
and the becalmed ocean within me
Is jealous.

Words by Umbra


Umbra’s Angel, 1998

I want him to come in the summer time


I do most of my thinking as I drive into work each morning. Sometimes I even do it out loud. I come down Ngarunga Gorge and there is a sweeping corner with a tiny sign that proclaims proudly, ‘Wellington’. In one breathtaking scene, the city is laid out before me, motorway snugly ┬ácurving next to the sparkling harbour.

It is just beautiful here, the sky is clear blue, even in the city, where tiny wooden cottages wrestle for space with huge structures made of concrete and chrome, even in the city where pohutukawa trees scream scarlet as they burst into bloom, and I think to myself “I want him to come in the summer time”

January, 2001