Two poems waiting for a home

Weather Report

Never mind that Waiouru's
frozen, iced and brutal,
or that Kaitaia, which is in the tropics anyway,

is constantly fine

and has no excuse to be otherwise;
or that Auckland rains flood in all seasons,
or that Wellington's swept off the map
with gusts and winds whose rate of knots
exceed the speed of light,
or the Garden City's smog smudges
homes, faces, windscreens
with a grey and pernicious smuttiness...

Always, always, in the Deep South
according to the (fair)-weathermen and -women
ensconced behind the Bombay Wall of Hills,
 it’s:

‘Snow,’
preferably down to 200 metres.

The Luddite Dreams

The Internet is down – for good.

Bookshops come back into their own;

Google has gone; librarians once again

Are the source of all knowledge. 

Everything you wanted to know in a hurry

You have to wait for, just as you did in the past.

You can’t order online, or pay online,

You have to communicate face to face,

With real faces, real voices, and discover

They are, for the most part, worth communicating with.

No more poker games online, no more

Pornography available at the touch of a key.

Life slows down, immeasurably, and

Millions of people find employment again.