one wet afternoon

A rain-laden wind is coming in off the ocean. Tiny, alluring sea-dreams are tapping against my windows and my heart. But I am right where I want to be : inside this little house that feels like an anchored boat, or maybe its just that my soul sways with the rain, the singing wind, and all the lovely gritty memories it brings.

A friend and I were talking the other day about New Zealand literature and how strange and often melancholy it tends to be. But I can't imagine how someone could spend their life in this long, narrow land of mountain and dark forest, of broken beaches and haunted rivers, and not write the whisper of an earth-dragon clinging to its watery territory, a glimpse of pohutukawa darkness, or a soughful echo of the wild shore.

What kind of literature does your province inspire?







3 comments:

  1. Oh, I totally agree with you about the wilds of NZ inspiring writing that is rugged, and soulful and sometimes a little dark. The absence of light is necessary.

    More photos? Yes please!

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