TE WAIHORA / LAKE ELLESMERE



I am standing on the spit
watching the declension of the sun.

On one side is the not quite lake
a bottle green mirror
out of an old postcard.

In this liminal realm between
nothing stirs the tussock.

Even the two herons
one white
and one blue-grey
seem frozen.

On the other side on the beach
just out of view behind the rise
you are picking up pebbles,
jasper, quartz, agate, and pounamu,
while the great rippled jade of the Pacific
roars behind, you throwing yellow festoons
at your feet, pulling back knuckles
of shingle.

Your pockets full of stones like a moa’s crop.

Robe me in bridal kōtuku feathers.

Crown me in matagouri.

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