The broken ground holds echoes of vanquished conceits
As the freckled spume bobs idly in the mouth of the bay.
And all around the hills, mortgaged eyes stare unblinkingly
At the sharp edges and impertinent reflections of the city
The children under bridges
Little boxes on the ridges
The tellys and the fridges
Are slipping away. Losing their grip on the city
In a room, far away, unconcerned by value, stands the fiscal Priapus
Honouring his father, great mercantile Dionysus.
He points south and with a gesture, flaccid and untailored
Betrays the denizens, the citizens, the begin-agains of the city
The brokers in their stripes
The journos with their hypes
The lobbyists and their gripes
Are slipping away. Losing their grip on the city
But other, more ancient Gods know that the land endures
Gala will not become Grendel.
Rangi and Papa conspire and light will join with earth
So that narrow men will cast no shadow in the city
A note from the author
The vandals may have occupied our city
But they are the 1%
The citizens are the 99%
And we will prevail
wbalanstuart
wiseblood.net 
Wellington, Wellington wherefore art thou ?
Wellington ! I knew him well
Wellington, Farewell and adieu !
And yet,
Wellington, my kingdom, for a house.
Once more unto Oriental Bay dear friends
And fill it with imported sand.