Keith D Trestrail Poet Lyric

Notes About The Poem

Pic above: Wayside Inn pub in Albany. Auckland, NZ. (circa 1980). Kauri is a large native tree.

Listen to poem:

Lines Written In Albany

  On white lines on valiant wheels
I head north leaving behind the city of sails
       with its humourless streets.
Its casino steel and glass Sky Tower
      rises like a giant kauri into the clouds
      in the land of sleeping volcanoes.
In my rear-view the harbour’s steel arch,
      a bridge to near and far -
monument to post-war nation building.
                     And as far as the eye can see,
New Age asphalt jungle urban sprawl…

  rows of fences, chimneys and walls;
concrete viaducts; analog towers and poles -
        behold the isle of Rangitoto
beyond sits a jewel rock in the gulf crown.
        And straight up State Highway 1 -
        land of my youth where
the hills are alive with the sound of cowbells,
    ghosts of gumdiggers, flax millers,
bootleggers, outlaws, brigand sailors…
                      yon the Greenhithe peninsula 
to Rosedale, Oteha Valley and beyond…

  past the fertile salad and fruit bowl
orchard row trees of Clemow and Airborne.
        A land of milk and honey,
fleece and beef, the rich strawberry fields
        where I once worked hard(ly)!
        Gone is the village church hall -
last year’s big supercell scything twister
    went Old Testament in a rage,
but not the old “Great War” memorial
                         to twenty-three of its sons.
Poetic methinks that a mighty whirlwind,

  an act of God raise a tempest
and smite down the hallowed walls on these
    Footrot Flats in the house
of cowshed fundamentalism. Is it the work 
    of a divine gumboot wearing monk
    named Fred or Trev who spared
the heathen pub’s barstools and beer taps?
    I know which I would spare…cheers!
God forbid some violent vortex
                        should save us from our sins,
yet the hillside graveyard remains intact -

  well, you can’t be killed twice
so those deadbeat bastards are laughing!
     So too the boys after a long day
drinking in matchplay a matchstick glass,
     and romancing the bush pig 
     rodeo girls on a Saturday night
in their tight thigh slapping spangled jeans,
     in their rootin’ tootin’ fu*k me boots
and their “hold me and hogtie me”
                        eyes looking to bushwhack 
some poor drooling rawhide rope jockey

  at the Wayside Inn saloon
and gambling hall. See drifters and grifters 
    drinking, shooting (pool that is).
Rednecks and cowboys off their wagons
    till closing time’s last call. Hell,
    more than once I hitched my pony there -
days when my saddle bags
    carried lead, not glittered gold, when
bitter beer and bitter ache filled my glass
                  and there was nowhere to hide,
No paths to glory - sadly no happy trails!


      Written: September 1996

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