New Zealand Poetry Society Te Hunga Tito Ruri o Aotearoa
My sister's San Diego garden - Elizabeth Robertson
My sister's San Diego garden looked like
a mini desert when I first walked out
to it that hot jet-lagged morning,
dry mouthed, an orange juice in my hand.
Behind me her house, mud-coloured,
rose up, a giant sand castle, towering
over the arid landscape. Her small son
had made a dust bowl, a crater, big enough
for him to jump into and hide from the
terrorist army, he told me. His dark hair
was sprinkled with gold dust in the harsh
light. Soldiers battled round the rim of
his fox-hole and he fought them off.
We sat and watched, laughing quietly,
on iron-hard chairs, the sunlight tracing
their lacy pattern onto the soft sand.
Friends came over with cake, cloud
white and orange sprinkled. We all had
a piece. It was layered and tasted of
nothing. I found it resting in her spare
fridge in its sarcophagus the next day.
We looked at the plans and tried to
imagine seeing five fountains splashing
amongst floral flashes, and green grass
through walls with glassless windows.
But we could not. Some years later,
she sent photos of this mirage, this
miracle, this trumping of the desert.
Great yellow and purple roses crept along the
walls, their tendrils reached out behind her son,
now a smiling stranger. He looked cool in his
shades, the dust bowl long forgotten.
Elizabeth Robertson
Christchurch
3rd place
