Cycling in the Maniototo

I wouldn’t care to hear
why it’s said we’re here
in case it ruins
what it feels like now.

The meaning of life
being played out
on the undulations between
Ranfurly and Kyeburn

on a bristly summer’s day
is not part of the
metaphysical agenda
as far as I know.

There’s no need to worship
the God of all gracious things:
the only one worth
honouring is the will

to keep on resolutely
keeping on. I baa at sheep,
shout at magpies, moo
with cattle, marvel at

the panache of hawks
riding the air above
the Ida Range. And I ride,
my legs going round

faster than in months,
the sou’easter a helpful
lick and flutter, and
past Wedderburn,

on the gentle incline
down the straights
to Oturehua, in the distance
the skyline of the Old Man Range

is a high wire
on which the last
of the snow is caught
like strands of wool.