Karangahake

There is a muddy photograph
where hills seem higher
the bridge has a more daring span.
A fenced road takes a wide swipe
into town. Miners' allotments
trodden over by time
leave indecipherable shadows
on earth. In the foreground
I study calloused hands of pick men
leant over shovels, making our history,
men who pushed into these
insurmountable mountains
never came back. Their guttered
roofs, windows with vistas
onto pioneer dreams
obliterated by bush. Up to
hips in mud, cradling gold,
their diggings have excised
whole hills. But the ranges
have healed old wounds,
so if you take a photo now
from the same spot across the river,
only the old schoolhouse clutches to its memories.
The rest is invisible.