New Zealand!

I know you are all dying to know more about the ant poem alluded to in my last missive, so I'll include at the end of this blog. But for those who would rather look at wonderful photos and hear about my day in the sun at the beach so that you can get to work immediately on your vicarious tan, I'll start there. This is what the west coast looks like, about 40 minutes from Auckland where I'm staying. Amazing to have such a wild place so close to a big city.







Continuing on up the path to the right of the photographer is a gannet colony. Below is a mum and chick, and part of the colony at the end of the little peninsula.


















Below is the beach I swam at today, seen from a distance, and then on the beach, the family (minus dad) with whom I'm staying. Clouds cleared considerably by the time we got to the beach, and the kids and I (age 8 and 11) played and played in the surf. There was a lifeguard, with flags marking a very small part of the beach where you could swim. Once in the water we realized why the area was so small - there was an incredible rip tide pulling us sideways all the time, and we were constantly being dragged out of the lifeguarded area. Still...it was great fun, even if the water was a bit cool. Isn't the black sand fabulous?!!













Up till today I've been a bit of a slug, not really doing much except talking to my friends. For some reason, jet lag or something has hit me finally as I crossed the two extra hours from Oz to NZ, and I haven't been sleeping well. But today being the first day of school holidays, we have all decided to make the best of my last week here...so let the adventures begin! Sleep or no sleep. Stayed tuned on this blog.


And now, to poetry. The ant poem is called Departmental, and is by Robert Frost. Read it 'on the surface' for a crazy view of ants, or leap into thoughts about the relationship between individuals and society, and one's place in the overall scheme of things. Either way, I think it's rather fun.

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn't with such.
He gave it scarcely a touch,
And was off on his duty run.
Yet if he encountered one
Of the hive's enquiry squad
Whose work is to find out God
And the nature of time and space,
He would put him onto the case.
Ants are a curious race;
One crossing with hurried tread
The body of one of their dead
Isn't given a moment's arrest-
Seems not even impressed.
But he no doubts report to any
With whom he crosses antennae,
And they no doubt report
To the higher up at court.
Then word goes forth in Formic:
"Death's come to Jerry McCormic,
Our selfless forager Jerry.
Will the special Janizary
Whose office it is to bury
The dead of the commissary
Go bring him home to his people.
Lay him in state on a sepal.
Wrap him for shroud in a petal.
Embalm him with ichor of nettle.
This is the word of your Queen."
And presently on the scene
Appears a solemn mortician;
And taking formal position
With feelers calmly atwiddle,
Seizes the dead by the middle,
And heaving him high in the air,
Carries him out of there.
No one stands round to stare.
It is nobody else's affair.

It couldn't be called ungentle.
But how thoroughly departmental.