Arriving in Russell
by John Steffler

When Cook came ashore here, his heart rose
and advanced like the boat that brought him,
riding on water so clear he might have been
sailing in sky, and the white sand he squinted at
and the green curls hanging plaited with red
hibiscus confirmed in his mind that God shared
his ideal of feminine beauty, since it burgeoned
forth in women and antelopes, fern-rees, even
in whole islands like this formed far from
jaded Europe in boundless blue. Having seen
the like in Tahiti and the many coral or smoking
islands on his way, he was already sure this
wasn't the southern continent. It rode too
lightly on the sea to carry massive commerce,
rivers of iron and brick, but then you never knew,
there might be gold, or wood to fashion ships
that wouldn't rot. And the excitement of Banks
and Solander, now crowding the dinghy's prow,
was always contagious; they had already spotted
birds they didn't recognise; would be in the water
before the boat touched land. No matter that
the natives, when they met them, would undoubtedly
be thieves, as proud of murder as of any art
they had, and that there would be venomous things
in the thickets; the world held marvels like
the legends said. By now he was mapping dreams.