light leaning on old bricks and iron roofs.
Oamaru stone stained, and students’
pump bottles and beat-up shoes.
Faded signs advertising vacancies outside
stucco white motels.
Threadbare, sodden sofas
on rusted fire escape rails.
Chip packets clogging drains,
facades lined with vines.
Taxi’s owned by ex-railway workers
and bins full of empties and buses
full of the retired.
Moss and slime and shadowy places
and crawling yards with mint.
Teenagers in their petticoats and Robbie Burn’s head
covered in seagull shit.
God it’s good to be home.