Harsh Old Coast

Harsh Old Coast

Decent to the Gates of Haast.

Boulders make ready to tumble,

precarious in this narrow ravine.

Mountains to left of us,

Mountains to right of us.

We make it through,

unlike the 600,

safe at the coast.

Tasman sailed by here much earlier,

this "land uplifted high".

It is uncluttered:

raw,

free,

natural,

harsh.

Little in the way of human interference,

vast in its natural abundance.

Trees bent, gnarled and sculpted by the wind,

vivid green 

with west coast palm fronds

poking about.

This coast gets a bashing;

wind, waves, glaciers, tumbling rock.

Weather lined rocky beaches

with

salt sea spray 

hanging about,

 drifting nonchalantly

amongst

ragged cliff silhouettes.

Pungent smell of coal fires

from the spewing chimneys

 of the sparse dwellings,

clogging Nelson noses.

Grey valley.

Sadness,

our hats off to you

in remembrance.

Brunner.

Pike River.

Lone miner walking home

in the evening.

Evocative.

We pass through and head for home.

Farewell coast.