When beauty drops like lead
Into a dried-up dark pool of appreciation,
A fountain of avoidance springs up
To marr all inspiration.
If you have heard the silent sonnet whispered soulfully by Milford's Sound,
Or watched Pukaki's pallette brush pastels through the burning sky,
If you have felt the rise of Kaikoura's green edge looming over the restless deep,
Or watched, for a moment, the wash, sinking into Piha's silken dark hands,
Then how could you deny the artist his masterpiece?
This Creator, his world?