Some cities have cold hearts, she said.
When skies are ripe with colour.
You walk and you walk and you could not quite believe how many hilly streets are there, and
Houses perched on the edge of cliffs.
Above the sea.
You labour up and down those hills in rain and wind, and
Some days you need to hold onto street-posts or something not to be blown into the sea with your umbrella turned up-side-down, and
Your hat flaying over the tree tops.
You come upon the old obelisks at the edge of your favourite garden; trees all ablaze now with red, and gold, and orange,
And you remember walking there this last summer,
Smiling at the city beneath; still new and hopeful.
We will get to know each other yet;
In your galleries and museums where sombre paintings of old Maori hang under the soft lights,
In tiny coffee houses nestled inside your narrow alleys where black-suited people drink their lattés and cappuccinos’ in a hurry,
In backstreet pubs and shabby theatres where miscellaneous artists carefully cultivate air of boredom and indifference.
You smile and you smile until your face hurts;
But it never smiles back.