Gazing at the Port Hills
while waiting for the bus,
I imagine them
as outstretched arms
of what could be
Christ on the cross,
and wonder if those
who named our city
perhaps saw them the same way
after witnessing
the proverbial lashings they took
from an unforgiving southerly,
followed by their disappearance
into dense, low cloud,
and followed, in turn,
by their grand resurrection
on a Spring morning,
such as this,
where every colour
in every garden
speaks of a miracle.




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