Like stars, like planets and just like the pretty blue sky;
Wellington's Wharf was perfect in its own way.
With slight human interference, Capital E to your right
A queer smelling Sea Food Diner to your left, and a
Gourmet Ice Cream Shop hidden in the corner by boroughs of
Trees in the smallest capacity and ropes and wooden benches,
And even concrete stairs with statues.
All of which adorned the the picturesque landscape of Wellington's Wharf.
The salty sea breeze whispers through one's hair
Like the calling of a mermaid singing through a conch shell. The air is chilly and turns one's
Cheeks the colour of peach, standing out on Wellington's Wharf.
Pretty blue, and white capped waves lap uncertainly against the
Barnacle enclosed, creaky wooden platforms. String rays hover greedily,
Children cooing over their ugliness, and chucking bread.
The minority of Wellington's Wharf and its natural aspects, a vibrant, but usually
Colourless all the same; sight to behold.
The tinkling of waitresses echo from the shack,
Humans crowding in notorious lines just to catch a
Taste of Wellington's best ice cream; The flavours far more than just
Flavoursome, gives one the comfort
That of which a tub of supermarket ice cream alone couldn't.
And all of this belong's to Wellington's Wharf, the boring wharf that creaks over the
Wild sea, the chilly winds that sweep over the city. The long and rather wide
Assortment of sea salt platforms conjoined with metal on steel.
All of this belong's to a sweet little windy northland city in New Zealand;
A city we call Wellington.