At present I like being home. The spring garden is full of new life. Regal tuis, tiny finches, playful rosellas. The shrieking White Cockatoos seldom fly over the house, only the valley. They are considerate. Kereru in a tree, five at once. On occasion a shy kingfisher makes its presence known. The black assassin cat sits waiting. Jingling. His neckband.
The birds geographically leave droppings of a promise, gifts of flowers and unwanted weeds. Are they sowing gratitude to nature? I’m happy to see the wild orchids are back. They don’t oblige every year. The pink cherry blossom trees fit upright tight between other specimens, determined. Camelias white, cerise and crimson. Shiny leaved magnolia. Bottle brushes deep to vivid reds, not to mention the exotic leucadendron and protea. Two huge Japanese cedars, landmarks from afar. Our home is on a flat ridge.
East beyond the sparse Kanuka and Manuka over the valley and towns Rangitoto feigns its sleep. During my petulant moods, fierce red rock spews powerful into the sky, followed by darkened smoke. Sky Tower and not so tall skyscrapers manage to connect with a heaven of every hue. Auckland city stands petite.
Colours of storm and night. My husband sighs in his sleep. I forgot the time and missed the moonrise. Out of view the Tasman Sea, hidden but not forgotten, by a hill of lofty pine, reduced, felled profusely. Logging trucks heard daily. The scalped right side of the mound saddens me. I wonder about the destiny of those tree giants, perhaps they are bound for China, reincarnated into furniture?
Sometimes in the still of the night we can hear the roar of the waves. The wild meets the tame and I feel safe and secure.