Charm
In my day. Used to be that you’d go walking up the track named after Karetai with a friend, one you hadn’t seen in a while. You’d talk lupins; he’d talk history, you’d talk lore. He’d stop you to look at the view, and my he’d be right, it really was something here with the tide out, outcrops of basalt coast you could discern the beaches by, turquoise water. You’d continue ambling and take a path beaten beyond wooden guards, you’d make your way through scrub to a promontory of baked clay at the precipice. In my day, there you’d seat yourselves. One of you would look at the other and say, of the sun’s glare, ‘It’s never like this,’ and smile. The other would slow-blink his blond eyelashes, a mothered kitten.
Angela Trolove (nō Kotirana, nō Airana ōna tīpuna) is a writer and arts reviewer based in Ōtepoti Dunedin. She writes to figure out what's going on and to pay homage to texture. And she loves the Plain Language movement! This year she's writing a thesis on how being sensible is relative, doing so at Ōtākou Whakaihu Waka. Contact her at angelatrolove.com
