There, beneath a portcullis of rain
lie the bones of time-rent men and women.
They lie awash in the slush
that saddened and sometimes defeated them.
Scabby hedges cling to the slopes
of hills yoked by sky.
Here the whole range of earth’s colours
sprawl on paddock, stone wall and crumpled sea.
Nothing is left untouched by sparse sunlight,
slanting rain, fists of wind punching
the ribs of the land. Here, under tough grasses
and the crust of sheep and cattle tracks
crumble the fondest dreams and prophecies.
No one came who stayed to conquer, no one came
who was not beaten down
or turned away for another time.
– Brian Turner, ‘Otago Peninsula’ in Ancestors (Dunedin: John McIndoe, 1981).