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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