CHI-CHI IN CHURCHUR

Gone are the English rooks from the elms

of the cathedral close. Under European trees

and dreaming fallen gothic spires, the city’s twin

green lungs are named for Bloody Mary’s martyrs -

the streets are English bishoprics – saluting the pink

parts of old atlases - save for the schismatic diagonal

heretic of High Street.

                                           Raupo reclaims the Avon.

More English than English, perhaps

explaining why sheep are only picturesque at a distance.

Up close they look like Hanoverans on all fours

in giant barristers’ wigs.

                                             What actually is us

stirs in the up-lilt of our sentences,

questioning everything, the words that appear

like scandals or crop circles: a bush pig hākari mole

can still go like a barn door in a Nor’wester

or further south, a buggered tappet, I reckon. Eh?