toru | Soil Report



Rangitoto grit

under my nails,
pumice light enough

to drift on harbour wind,
Waitematā silt

dark with iron

and buried kauri.
I press it

to the roof of my mouth.
Diesel.

Manuka smoke.

Salt caught in rainwater.
At night the city’s neon

stutters against rain-black glass.
Beyond it:
tūī breaking open

the wet ponga dark,
ruru passing low

through the gullies,
rain on tin roofs

like knuckles testing

the earth for hollowness.
Every ground keeps

the shape of what entered it—
bare feet,

work boots,

heels turning back.
I swallow.
The burn stays.