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  1. Outgoing Tide: 50 English Haiku
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  3. Guide Outgoing Tide: 50 English Haiku

I choose a seat, on the wrong side for views as it happens. The combination of sun, dust and breath-steam makes the view pretty well invisible, although I do see one village with two camels, and a blue-green mosque. Ezekiel gives me a lift to my accommodation, the Al Afqa, in an incredibly decrepit bright red mini bus. I eat a late breakfast of olives, boiled egg, and apricot conserve full of whole apricots, accompanied by English pop music, chirruping caged birds, sunshine, and fellow travellers who make comments about my age.

I arrive at the entrance, and hesitate. Mahomet, no older than 10, bails me up to sell me postcards. I sit amongst turrets with views out to the ineffable barrenness of the hills and down over villages. The next day I see him in the museum and he greets me like an old friend. I sit quietly and contemplatively, moving with the sun, until the sunset crowds begin to arrive.

I find it quite steep, and scree as well. Is this what he meant by flat?

That was then. This is now, an update thanks to Wikipedia. I hesitate to be the tourist in the middle of current devastation in Syria. It was recaptured by Syrian government forces in another offensive in March Retreating ISIS fighters blew up parts of the castle, including the stairway leading to the entrance, causing extensive damage.

The basic structure is still intact, and Syrian director of antiquities Maamoun Abdelkarim stated that the damage is reparable and the castle is to be restored. You never know what will turn up at the local library. The presenter is the shorebird recovery expert from National Parks, Narooma. She keeps an eye on migratory bird numbers and safety in the estuaries and on the beaches from Bateman Bay to Eden. She begins by introducing us to E7, a totally inadequate name for a bar-tailed godwit who has been tracked flying non-stop over the ocean from Alaska to New Zealand, an incredible km in 8 days.

And here she is.

Each year 50 million migratory waterbirds use the flyway. We meet other birds that arrive on our local shores and estuaries. We see the beach box which is used to educate people about shorebirds and their sometimes non-too-canny nesting habits. Then we move into the world of art.

Outgoing Tide: 50 English Haiku

Kate Gorringe-Smith starts from a premise: Knowledge bestows ownership; uniqueness bestows value. She invites twenty print makers along the flyway to create prints featuring birds and their migration in some way. They do so, using a wide variety of techniques, sometimes with the signature of their culture, sometimes not. If you want to see these images individually, with artist name and print technique look here. Each original print is folded and addressed to an artist or scientist in one of the countries along the flyway and sent off by normal mail, and then sent back.

The exhibition includes these letters, marked by their travels with postmarks, and stamps, mimicking the passage and collateral damage that happens to birds, although none of the letters go missing. Cemetery Beach , Glasshouse Rocks. You can change your ad preferences anytime. Upcoming SlideShare. Like this presentation? Why not share! Embed Size px. Start on. Show related SlideShares at end. WordPress Shortcode. Published in: Internet. Full Name Comment goes here. Are you sure you want to Yes No. No Downloads. Views Total views. Actions Shares. Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide.

Behind the tree line haiku anthology 1.

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No work may be republished or used in any way without their explicit permission. I like seeing, in this kind of scene, how landscape predates us, out-punches us, overpowers us and takes precedence over us, often in an understated, gentle way.

Now, looking at that mountain, I see it as the site of a primeval explosion, full of energy and natural forces. The piled stones remain. Today the most striking remnants, to me, are the many signs denoting an ongoing protest over land rights.

Guide Outgoing Tide: 50 English Haiku

An information panel says tangata whenua are in danger of being squeezed out of their rightful territory by greedy developers, and that historic land-theft in the area has never been recognised, much less recompensed. The more things change…. It rained, the odd car roared by, huge planes rose and sank through the mists. I put my head down, clicked into the familiar feeling of the land slipping by, and followed the white line. A bridge took me over broad, brown Pukaki Creek, which, at low tide, is no more than a thin silver ribbon along a muddy central groove.

While I rested under a nearby tree, one of those steel behemoths lumbered up into the sky directly over the viewing area, and trumpeted off, stately, immense, certain. Less stately, but still serene, I, too, trundled on in the drizzly twilight.

A few kilometres later, good mate Dan turned up. More perks of urban tramping: generous collection from the trail-end, the same bed for a few nights, and not having to cart all your stuff. At first the trail passes through a reserve and is lined with bush; it feels like proper tramping, beside a silvery stream and big native trees. Puhinui creek: I feel your pain, but you soldier on, tinkling, as you always have.

I hope you always will. At times it disappears under all that enveloping, anaesthetising concrete; you pass a few barb-wired compounds, a cul de sac or two, a traffic light, a thoroughfare; only to see it reborn a bit further along, holding no grudge, its silvery tinkling undiminished. There are views of the Hunua Ranges as you slog along the frenetic Alfriston and Brookby roads, further and further out into the quiet paddocks.

Cars and trucks hurtled by, and Doctor Dan took a professional interest in the high-tide drifts of scattered road-kill. Brookby turned out to be a place of compelling quietness, with a primary school, a riding club and a drowsing crossroads. O urban tramping, you are so under-rated. I refuse to rush. The pain that is thrust upon us let no man slow or speed or fix. Dan, a mate who generously hosted me for the three days I spent crossing Auckland proper. The Harbour Bridge loomed above; a gentle but strong swell rolled in from the Pacific, blending with the wakes of ferries, speedboats and cargo ships.