Our time at Nukutavava with three little boys was one of the best periods in our lives. We had three bures and a niece aged about nine lived with us. I wrote this poem about the quietness of living there.
A mango plops on the wet grass,
I collect a handful to pare and slice.
Parrot mangoes coloured sunrise.
I hear Rinieta singing
as she strolls towards the spring
where water drips like plucked strings.
This is the day, this is the day
that the Lord has made.
Still steeped in kava dreams
I hear piano cadences of Peer Gynt's Morning
And the sad contralto of Solvieg's Song
Whispers from my distant land.
I lick my lips, taste salt and sweat;
it will be another stunner today.
Light catches the plaits of bamboo
as I sit on the doorstep,
cannot speak for the sheer wonder of it
as the soft scarf of the sky
floats with seeping dyes
and islands hang on the skyline.
The colours die into a bland talcum day:
The baby will wake in an hour.