A snatch of the General Prologue of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, modernised and moved to New Zealand. Kinloch is a tiny little place in Central Otago (commonly called just Central) within ten minutes of about two-dozen walking tracks, hence the title.
When September, with his strong storms and innocent grin,
Has waylaid dry and dismal August,
Tip topping him up, every vein and pore, with liqueur
To make the many coloured flowers burst forth;
When too, Tawhirimatea inspires
The lusty sighs of every tree and shrub,
And they array themselves in green buds of seduction
That make the birds go wildly whistling,
Amorous suitors calling all night long and through the day
(As their melodious nature pointedly pricks them);
Then people long for stranger shores,
Or those so close they hid unseen,
And along their wending way they find themselves
Here in hope,
To catch the deep breaths of the mountains.
Kinloch, for me, is a childhood memory,
And wistful dreams had brought me here
Before a darkening storm,
That set the lake fidgeting at its edges
And the mountains scrunching their brows.
The Lodge that night held twenty nine,
Adventurers, holiday makers, escapees,
And me,
Riding out the weather in fleeting fellowship.