Overlooking a beautiful bay in Auckland, New Zealand, is a quaint old cemetery...
I spent six weeks regenerating there a few years ago,
I was burnt-out, my batteries were on very-low,
I needed some other-worldly energy to recharge,
What better way to accomplish that than in the stolid company of the local sleepers...

I encountered some fascinating denizens there,
Kindred spirits, they were,
Frequenting the same oasis I was...,
One afternoon, for instance,
I was awakened from my reverie by the sweet smell of ‘maryjane’,
The soul on the bench a few feet away from me,
Was puffing-up a storm..., seeking a different kind of high...

Another blond banshee, enjoyed bringing a different paramour to the venue every so often,
If ‘ya gotta do it’ with someone new every now and then,
What better cover than a grave or two...

Then there was the old dear, who, by the pallid colour of her skin, was not too far from being a spectre herself,
Who brought her faithful companion every afternoon,
A fluffy little Pekingese, with whom she chatted endlessly...

Then there was the teary Asian lady,
Visiting a little child, I discovered from the inscription,
Unkindly and untimely snatched from life,
With many more years to go,
Before the final clarion call...,
Always bringing flowers, a little toy, incense...,
An offering and a console to the young departed angel...

Amongst these absorbing essences,
Was I,
An anachronism of sorts,
A bird with broken wings,
Far from his native Africa,
Quiet, silent, observing the observer,
Mending, repairing my psyche...

Sigh..., that was New Zealand for me...,
Recuperative...