TE POKOHIWI / WAIRAU BAR



The bone marrow lives yet, but we know them by
what they threw away, the tucked in tight strata
tsunami churned; sixty-nine adzes (only three

of cool pounamu), eighty-one stone and bone
fishing lures, shells: pipi, pāua, cockles,
an aviary of birds – even Moa and Haast’s eagle,

bone reels for necklaces. Virtuous objects
in their display case tell of hardships, the residuum
of simple hand-to-mouth dignity reduced

to the hardness that remains, a testimony

to days hand-wielded in the air and light, a legacy.

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