Tucked into my tuna salad,
peered from the wide window vista
onto a northwest wind whipped landscape
of the North Canterbury Plains,
spied snow-capped peaks in the distance.

Listened to the sonata of the clickety clack
of steel wheels on a steel track, a lullaby
time flew by, soon the wide reaches
of the Waimakariri passed underneath
and rata trees and beech greened the view.

Craned my neck, left and right,
tall mountains of the Southern Divide
made this ride pale into insignificance, soon,
the little settlement of Arthur’s Pass
my old hometown, way back when.

Twenty minute stop, walked a round a little,
visited the old school, the ranger station,
and the house at number two Sunrise Place,
skipped stones across a once dammed creek,
gawked at the sight in the little chapel, magic.

All aboard, and through that long, long tunnel,
slept a little, lulled by the dark, and the wheel song,
jumped alert at the other side, bright western light,
the ghost town of Otira now rotting away,
the occasional lifestyler, and hermit walking.

Across the broad green water enriched reach
of the West Coast plains, beech forested mountains
slipping behind, and the train rolled into Greymouth,
coastal city, flooding river, flooded beer halls,
and a population born hard to be hard, secluded.

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