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?