(In iambic drift, with a wink from the pākehā side of the pā)
O, cursed morn! When waves did crackle flat,
Mine voice — though rich — was muffled under chat.
No genii loosed from lamp or civic scroll,
No gleaming plan from deep strategic soul.
The host, a sprite with jester’s flitty air,
Did wander off to froth and not to fare
Where thought might dwell, where future’s bones be laid—
Instead, I danced within the “Fringe” he made.
What waste of wit! What ill-considered time!
An error sharp — though not exactly crime.
But aye, 'tis past. The tempest now is gone,
And I, like sun, must rise and carry on.
Elections closed, and silence fills the street,
Save mem'ries of the fifty-one I meet.
Mesh, thou art one, with heart and action bold,
A goal set firm, a wharf in dusk and gold.
Each noble ran with reasons rich and rare,
Yet reasons melt, like dew in morning air.
When purpose fades, the crowd must drift away—
A waka loosed, no longer tied to bay.
Yet joy was found at gates where planes descend:
Paul off the wing, and talk of probate’s bend.
At Ruakura Club, with mates I cheer,
And Dr Dara’s wisdom still draws near.
Now back I sit, before this glowing page,
To scribe anew, and walk from out the cage.
The future calls, with browser tabs unclosed,
A keyboard’s hum, where quiet dreams composed.
Mesh, thou hast launched — a waka full of pride!
The cruise boat's gone; the bridge now must be plied.
We who stood waving, warm with civic grace,
Give time and coin to help thee on the race.
Yet hear me speak, ye chiefs in council hall:
Our rates, our fees, our sweat — they count for all.
The bridge you build is not of stone alone—
It’s shaped by voices raised, by hearts well known.