Pakiri

 
 
 
Rowley,
is the voice of Pakiri Your soul?
Amidst
the Marum Dunes of this place,
I
tremble,
awaiting the earth woven Kites of my kaumatua,

I
cross legged with hinaki fingers pointed toward heaven,
Empty of
an estuary to claim,

Rowley,
Awaken the flax and winter sand!,
the
latening chill of September rides grey and wide,
the
thunderous waves breaching my
tongue,
I
tremble to awaken my conscience,

Rowley it’s September already and
the
blessed limbs of these trees are nurturing children,
their bones arched like gods,
Silent
in
stature to reign,

Rowley, I now know it’s time to straighten my dogged back
Yet the footprints
I
trace appear littered with pipi shells,
their
silence will not cease to broaden my contemplation

Rowley,
My head is Orphelia we’d imagined last spring,
with
tussock ridden under her lashes,
sleeping amidst the arms of a Pohutakawa,
her
hands to bleed as a sister to the fire flower,

Rowley
she wept a sea from her hip,
wailing a hymn for me never to forget,
I
trembled alone,
her fish tugging at my nerves,

Rowley,
tears are running off the lip of the
Sea,
Pakiri
alive to the sight of Seagulls,
prowling a desolate coastline for food,
they
are travellers of the soul!
dipping wings into the backbone of the pacific rim,
resounding their flutes of solace,

Rowley,
I am a fool for romance.
Truly I see only the art of natures cloth
What lies in wait for me?
Musing my silence,

I
tremble to ask.

© 2001 Trout &
Ben Kemp