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Two Left Feet

Two Left FeetPoems & Prose II byW.F. StubbsWarshell PublishingAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or digital, including photocopying, recording, storage in any information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.Published by Warshell Publishing2023 New Zealand© 2023 Warwick StubbsISBN 978-0-473-66554-8Te reo translations in ‘Pale’ by Sean Delany, Te Āwhina Marae, Motueka (2018)Artwork, cover, and design by W. StubbsEditing and typesetting by Val ompson – EditorPrinted by Wakeeld Digital

Two Left FeetPoems & Prose II byW.F. StubbsWarshell PublishingAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or digital, including photocopying, recording, storage in any information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.Published by Warshell Publishing2023 New Zealand© 2023 Warwick StubbsISBN 978-0-473-66554-8Te reo translations in ‘Pale’ by Sean Delany, Te Āwhina Marae, Motueka (2018)Artwork, cover, and design by W. StubbsEditing and typesetting by Val ompson – EditorPrinted by Wakeeld Digital

17Afterwards

17Afterwards

19Miss SherlockFor this loveMiss Sherlock gave a pen,One he could not work out how to llTo make the rst marks of the day,Sitting inside sipping cappuccinos on Oxford Street.A fountain of violet, indigo, without instructionsFor the biro was all he held in ngers for years. Rells unknown,Ink spills to be shownFor love’s appreciation and desire.For this loveMiss Sherlock made the bed,One he brought sand (and silt) into regularlyDragging the riverside into their home,To mark the rst groans of the day.~ ~ ~Caretaker’s love, I guessPlied her thoughts,Soared,Swept his trailing feet up in the wake,Lifted souls upNine clouds aboveNine lives pastCat’s eyes danceOn salted seas,Chocolate toee.~ ~ ~Fountain success, you seeDrifts across the page, and leaves

19Miss SherlockFor this loveMiss Sherlock gave a pen,One he could not work out how to llTo make the rst marks of the day,Sitting inside sipping cappuccinos on Oxford Street.A fountain of violet, indigo, without instructionsFor the biro was all he held in ngers for years. Rells unknown,Ink spills to be shownFor love’s appreciation and desire.For this loveMiss Sherlock made the bed,One he brought sand (and silt) into regularlyDragging the riverside into their home,To mark the rst groans of the day.~ ~ ~Caretaker’s love, I guessPlied her thoughts,Soared,Swept his trailing feet up in the wake,Lifted souls upNine clouds aboveNine lives pastCat’s eyes danceOn salted seas,Chocolate toee.~ ~ ~Fountain success, you seeDrifts across the page, and leaves

20 21Marks, useless larksBut enough to treat the daywith respect.Sun – it is shadows among trees, ducks quacking and apping wings to avoid suspicious reach. Clouds occasionally, winds wrapping wreaths of cool across bare feet.He txts to say “I gured it out – how this pen works”– More ink now to splash worse words with,And lo, new inspiration messes the page.Mr Sandman, Miss Sherlock sang,Bring me your sand – linen never gets enough of feet roughing the folds.Seagulls far from shore: where are thy scraps to feed mine own beak?I can’t speak!I gorged Fair Trade Chocolate and RJ’s Licorice for happiness to seek.I want more, always moreAnd biscuits to satisfy midnight’s feast.Hunger unleashedBoredom reachedUnfound sleepe night with eyelids wide teased.~ ~ ~Miss Sherlock called, phone in handA number to sort.e open door, a path to walkEyes look, other eyes soughtese eyes remember conversations cut short.What more was sought?e river’s downstream rapids brought,Cinnamon bun in hand,A chance bakery visit, new acquaintanceand picnic blanket.

20 21Marks, useless larksBut enough to treat the daywith respect.Sun – it is shadows among trees, ducks quacking and apping wings to avoid suspicious reach. Clouds occasionally, winds wrapping wreaths of cool across bare feet.He txts to say “I gured it out – how this pen works”– More ink now to splash worse words with,And lo, new inspiration messes the page.Mr Sandman, Miss Sherlock sang,Bring me your sand – linen never gets enough of feet roughing the folds.Seagulls far from shore: where are thy scraps to feed mine own beak?I can’t speak!I gorged Fair Trade Chocolate and RJ’s Licorice for happiness to seek.I want more, always moreAnd biscuits to satisfy midnight’s feast.Hunger unleashedBoredom reachedUnfound sleepe night with eyelids wide teased.~ ~ ~Miss Sherlock called, phone in handA number to sort.e open door, a path to walkEyes look, other eyes soughtese eyes remember conversations cut short.What more was sought?e river’s downstream rapids brought,Cinnamon bun in hand,A chance bakery visit, new acquaintanceand picnic blanket.

70 71It ends here I tell Miss Sherlock after nishing the cake for her, forking the best of the chocolate icing into my mouth, ngering out the last of the yoghurt from its dish, chomping up the nal fries and recaeinating my palate through the bottom of the cup: “is is a good time to start a sixteen hour fast from.”It was a simple day. Simply enjoyable.Sprites still sprinkle patterns across the pond, warm breezes chase away the last sprays of rain, and occasional trac can be heard from the other side of the Clutha river.It is like being young again, surrounded by pines, dried sap on fallen trunk stumps.is peace is simple.Onwards to OnslowI dream of music, guitars, singing ‘Nutshell’, singing as a part of Kora while in a square shearing shed on the farm. But each day my wrist shows more signs of carpal tunnel injury through soreness and sudden pains. In random moments of relaxing, soreness inltrates my wrist with my left receiving similar pains only after being crooked (sleeping, driving, reading …).I dream of these things.ese things dream of me.Unexplained dreams. Dreams with ltered meanings, masks of friends and images slipping away like rain down the windowpane.It rains in Teviot. 30° in Alexandra. Heat was overcast some-what this way and after a planned early dinner of lasagne at Faigan’s Café at Miller’s Flat, we jumped back into the L300 and chased the allure of a swimming spot at Lake Onslow – an hour’s drive deeper into the heart of Ōtago where rolling dry hills sweep over into dusty potholed roads. Famous New Zealand landscapes painted by Sydney – they’re all here begging the eyes to stare longer until each horizon becomes a mirage of sustained oils on canvas.e road, an all dry trail t for 4WDs that the van bounces, rocks, and grinds across, CDs jumping out of their box, collected stones rattling along the oor, slowed my driving to a crawl around tight corners and cattle-stops, all the while those hills stretched onwards reaching cloud lines level with our own eyes. Returning 4WDs with jet-boats on trailers are our only clue that we might be going the right way: every turn and stretch of road, zig-zagging and cresting at the top of hills, kept revealing deeper Ōtago far from tarseal and what seemed to us any signs of the fabled lake waters we were after.“Do you know of any good swimming spots around here?” Miss Sherlock asked the waiter back at Miller’s Flat.“Well,” she said, hand on hip. “Pinder’s Pond …”I cut in. “We’ve been there.”

72 73Albert TownWe parked a second night at the Queenstown Lakes District campsite in Albert Town. is morning boasts a mixture of about 100 cars and campervans – tourists and travellers from all walks of the earth. Most vehicles contain 2 occupants. e QLD charge $10 per person for an overnight stay, which is cheap compared to DOC sites. If everyone was paying their fee as intended, the QLD would have raked in $2000 this morning. Extend that average out to a week and the council has made around $14,000. at’s $728,000 per year just from this one campsite. Obviously the numbers drop in winter, but with two or three similar campsites in operation, that average still sticks and could easily hit $1 million. With that kind of money coming in (and with little expenses on maintenance), it’s astounding to me that the district libraries are charging for computer use now. Does the booming tourism industry not bring in enough to supplement a free library like the good ol’ days of yore?I sometimes wonder if councils focus too much on big expensive projects rather than keeping community-supporting organisations funded. Projects projected to bring in more money for the communi-ty are always directing money away from direct community funding, and directing it instead towards projects projected to bring in more money for the community.Miss Sherlock prefers the polite reply. “We’re currently camping there. We were hoping to nd something a bit further out of the way, away from everyone else.”“Oh, well, in that case, the only one I can think of is Lake Onslow where people take their jet-boats, as it’s a pretty big lake with heaps of smaller swimming areas around it.”She neglected to tell us the length of travel time it would take.And the many potholes turning into road-ravines …Half an hour later sights of water are still far from any visual detection. Sherlock hangs her head out the passenger side window, hair blowing behind, dust trailing after, a hand to her brow as eyes scan the horizon: “More hills.”More road. More dust. More sky.More potholes. More swerving to avoid getting stuck down a crevice that these about-town wheels could never climb out of, that this van we have made our travelling home for the last few weeks would nd a nal resting place in.Twenty minutes go by. More of the same.Until nally – nally! – one more hill brought us cresting over and into the sight of a vast stretch of blue water before us …… still way o in the distance!e vastness of Lake Onslow was no match for the vastness of the countryside itself, but the stretching width that lake took up in our vision, even this far away, was certainly something to behold.ere are disappointments in life, and there are matter of fact acceptances. We had no jet-boat, no jet-ski, no shing lines, no little shack of our own; we were just a couple of wanderers in search of new things. And a light tea-brown lake wasn’t that much of a new thing to this middle-aged ex-farmboy. Instincts kicked in: “I’m not swimming in that.”Miss Sherlock blows bubbles from an underwater grin.