// Port Hutt //

Port Hutt

I take my Aunty to see the shipwrecks at Port Hutt

When we close the truck doors, small birds fly away from the top of a caravan without wheels

There’s three of them, I say as we drive down towards the coast

One lies next to the wharf; its flaking pale blue exterior betrays the rot.

The other, further down the beach, is a meeting spot for birds.

The third adorns the tired shore across the bay.

Look, hon, she says, after some time sweeping her hands across the detritus. 

She is turning a piece of paua shell in her fingers.

A bird flies over our heads.

You could never replicate those colours, she is saying, never reproduce them in any kind of art form.

But all I can see is how much her hands look like mine.