Here settlers first landed

to stand wide-eyed

on the wind-raked sand

not a soul in sight

not a whisker, not a whit

no stick to mark

the barren ground

or where to lay

their burdens down

where to pitch

and scratch their lots

to field the clay

fetch water, pots

make shelter from

the demon gale

II

When tattooed men appeared

their confusion grew:

What's theirs? What's ours?

the land they'd bought

with chartered title:

what fair parcels, these?

the black gulls called

and wheeled above

beyond the south sea palled

cold, green, dark

turning their dreams to

driftwood, kelp

turning their dreams

to dust