To a Town Planner

Beside me grows
A slip of macrocarpa,
Which, crushed, yields forth its sweetness
Like life . . .
A fragrance blows
From gorse, from grass, from everything that lives.
Bees
Murmur a languorous symphony.

* * *

I turn
And Wellington, like an octopus
Lolls impudently in the hollow,
Spewing forth
A thousand sepia streams.
Sometimes the pit has beauty,
But not to-day,
When light and air are free as God's salvation
But men growl: "Nay!"

—B.A.S.