Down through a miasma of cloud
we drop steeply, as necessary.
For once we approach at a lower altitude
and seem to take longer than usual.
The Heads appear through gauze, or vellum:
Turakirae, Baring, Pencarrow to the right
Sinclair on the left, just before a patch
of spiky black rocks hemmed with
writhing white foam. Also just after
a field of stretched russet kelp fronds
pointing back towards South Island
or perhaps a country that once was.
As wind tussles with tail and wingtip
you hope it doesn't push the entire tin can down
into the leaden waters, to tangle with kelp,
onto brittle black rocks to be impaled
surrounded by coiling white snakes of foam.
The engines chug; this plane refuses
to be deterred, is determined to win.
Landing is a pleasure, so smooth
on a tarmac gleaming satiny with rain,
the roll-in as stately as any conqueror.
Yes, Wellington is wild at heart, wet and windy
and wonderful to wade into, once again.
1 June 2010