On the Edge

She lived
dangerously

my mother
cut the bread
towards her

spoke with pins
in her mouth

 
but she knew
to burn her diary

 
well before
she died

 
so we girls
wouldn't learn

 
her secrets.

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Leaving the House

Here, a carved stone bowl
from the house of many colours
where walls are peacock green
hot pink and sockeye salmon
where floor to ceiling cupboards
are melted chocolate brown.

 
The front door closes.

 
Pumice sculptures sighstones shuffle, restless
walnuts drift on the porch.

 
There is no going back.

 
But look, already moss grows
green in the pores
of the stone bowl.
are melted chocolate brown.

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Knowing Home

The sea
milky green
cradling islands

 
the mainland shore
the moored boats
waiting for summer

 
the pohutukawa trees
leaning out
across the shells

 
beaches, dry at low tide
the foot

 
of smooth white cliffs
the orange dusk
the black pines
on the point

Jupiter
large above the horizon
fresh fish for tea.

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Camp Stories

When the nor'wester dies
the children come along the track
make a circle round the fire
hear tales of the birdwoman.
The cold crawls up their spines
their cheeks flush, their eyes glow
like ashes as the flames fade.

 
And back in their bunks
they dream and fret over
blackswamp fever, how, overnight
their skin breaks out in spots
as black as fear.

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Gathering

Two in the afternoon
and the estuary naked
as dirty skin.

 
A dribble of water
leaks away
through the sand.

 
In all the flatness
two mooring poles stand
starkly vertical.

 
We come with our buckets
and kneel as if scrubbing floors
both hands working.

 
Cockles steeped
in salt water
spit sand all night.

 
In the morning
we eat fritters.

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Dream a River

Third place in the inaugural Bernard Gadd Memorial Poetry Prize, 2008

Dream a river, a bank
a knotted rope
thrown over a tree
a hold on that rope
a push
over the thin-skinned water
a drop.

In the few seconds of letting go
dance in air
hear the river below
hunger for the water.

Enter time and space
having known
for a moment
the whole story.

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The Winding Path

Who can resist the winding path
dusty and spread with pebbles.
Fennel grows tall and feathery
in a tangle of daisies
and grasses with shivery seed heads.

No one knows how long it is
nor how long it takes
but it speaks of small moths
settling on the stems of wildflowers
and dragonflies hovering
beside slow feet.

Not knowing is part of the richness.
See the little white cloud
change shape on the horizon.
Breathe earth, air and water
warmed by the fiery sun.
 

This is
the place
to be.

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