Wellington again slaps the face with wind
So well remembered; and now the mind
Leaps; all sea, all tossed hills, all-white-
Edged air poured in tides over the tight
Town. Bleached bones of houses are hard
To distinguish, at some distance, from a graveyard.
New Zealand poet, Ruth France, paints a pretty word picture of Wellington, although the graveyard image is unkind. But then the Kiwis love to denigrate their capital in the same way that the Aussies carp at Canberra or Americans disparage Washington.
But there’s no questioning the fact that Wellington is windy. New Zealanders say you can tell a Wellington man by his walk. He’s always angled into the wind at 45 degrees.
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