Maybe you could try asking over at TradeMe,in the books forum - the posters there are really helpful.

www.poetrysociety.org.nz/node/19 - 20k
They may be able to help you folks.

The Future by Basil Dowling.

I see the future as a silent film
Already made,and waiting to unroll;
The history of every race and realm
Unfolding to complete the epic whole.
Self -born,it has no need of a creator.
Only a nameless unseen operator
To flick a switch and set projectors whirring
At midnight of today and every day,
Assuredly it will be sad and stirring;
Sunny at times;often dull and grey,
It will portray all passions of the past,
And all calamities except the last
While we,the actors and the audience too,
Wait anxiously to know what parts we play.

Democracy
Democracy will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.

I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course
.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

Freedom
Is a strong seed
Planted
In a great need.

I live here, too.
I want freedom
Just as you.

Langston Hughes
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O,for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break,break,break
At the foot of thy crags,O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Tennyson

In Position From book A Matter of Timing by Lauris Edmond

I want to tell you about time,how strangely
it behaves when you havent got much of it left;
after 60 say or 70 when you,d think it would

find itself squeezed so hard that like melting
ice it would surely begin to shrink,each day
looking smaller and smaller-well its not so.

The rules change,a single hour can grow huge
and quiet,full of reflections like an old river,
its slow-turning eddies and whirls showing you

every face of your life in a fluid design-
your children for instance,how you see them
deepened and changed,not merely by age,but by

time itself,its wide and luminous eye,and you
realise at last that your every gift to them--love,
your very life,should they need it-will not

and cannot come back; it wasn,t a gift at all
but a borrowing,a baton for them to pass on in
their turn,Look.there they are in this

shimmering distance,rushing through their kind
of time,moving faster than you yet not catching up
You,re alone.And slowly you begin to discern

the queer outline of whats to come; the bend in
the river beyond which,moving steadily,head up
(you hope) you will simply vanish from sight.

Pause by Mary Ursula Bethell.

When I am very earnestly digging
I lift my head sometimes,and look at the mountains,
And muse upon them,muscles relaxing.

I think how freely the wild grasses flower there,
How grandly the storm-shaped trees are massed in their gorges
And the rain-worn rocks strewn in magnificent heaps.

It is only a little while since this hillside
Lay untrammelled likewise,
Unceasingly swept by transmarine winds.

I have had innumerable visits to Mary Ursula Bethells former home where many of her poems were written from. She lived at Rise Cottage 10 Westenra Tce Cashmere.

I was just thinking about that very poem the other day Dr L,but I thought it was Eileen Duggan who wrote it,think we had to learn it at high school,so a fair while ago.

Wogs ... I haven't given up the search.

Belladona and Mona ... I'm trying both options. Thanks for your ideas.

*shuffles off determined to discover everything she can about `that' poem.

:Thanks Going Grey I do hope you manage to find it after all your trouble

Time by Mary Ursula Bethell.

"Established" is a good word,much used in garden books,
"The plant,when established"
Oh,become established quickly.quickly,garden!
For I am fugitive,I am very fugitive----

Those that come after me will gather these roses,
And watch,as I do now,the white wisteria
Burst in the sunshine,from its pale green sheath.

Planned,Planted.Established.Then neglected,
Till at last the loiterer by the gate will wonder
At the old,old cottage,the old wooden cottage,
And say"One might build here,the view is glorious:
This must have been a pretty garden once"

Leisure: William H. Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stop and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep and cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.

No time to turn at beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care'
We have no time to stop and stare.

The NZ Poetry Society haven't been able to help me, Wogs, but they have suggested a couple of `possible' places to try.

I'll keep you informed. Besides, it sounded so lovely and so `kiwi' I want to read the whole poem for myself now!