-Hone Tuwhare-
No one comes
by way of the doughy track
through a straggley tea tree bush
and gorse, past the hidden spring
and bitter cress.
Under the chill moon's light
no one cares to look upon
the drunken fence-posts
and the gate white with moss.
No one except the wind
saw the old place
make her final curtsy
to the sky and earth:
and in no protesting sense
did iron and barbed wire
ease to the rust's invasion
nor twang more tautly
to the wind's slap and scream
On the cream-lorry
or morning paper van
no one comes,
for no one will ever leave
the golden city on the fussy train;
and there will be no more waiting
on the hill beside the quiet tree
where the old place falters
because no one comes any more
no one
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