Scorched Implements

By | 1 May 2014


here the wind pushes / rests

snatches at birds’ feathers / sniffs out

body heat the thermal readings

of a day’s exertion


i drop to the ground

stain my belly green

and crush wormcasts

toasted by the sun


the road to Ngamotu

is littered with stone emblems

facades lying flat

people in wrinkled skins

i suffer from the ingredients

of the night before

i look uncomfortable

sitting in my seat sitting on stories

left behind before walking

into the city through fields

of potatoes / homes specifically built

for soldiers / farmers / their wives

their maidservants


the road to Ngamotu

is not all tinsel-taped

and entangled /

leather boots have flattened it

for easy access

for viewing landscapes

rusty ploughs

scorched implements in their making

the neighbourhood

has retreated uphill

to live amongst the camellias

the rhododendrons

the laughing owls

to love amongst the sectarian adherents
wearing white flowers


a generation now dug in

stares skywards

under the weight of its hangi stones

its verbs silent

i suffer from the remoteness

of a woman

holed up in a dream of herself

her habits / her bucolic version

of staring at a gift horse

and smelling the fertile sweetness of its breath


the road is as it is /

dry dusty pot-holed / an appian way

plundered by workers every day

the horse knows best knows where to go

past the skypools of relatives / gates bolted to the earth

past forests arguing about longevity

the woman

sits at a table in the backyard

midges shape her thoughts / they


and spin /

her mind takes refuge

amongst tribal affiliates

a shamanistic resonance

influences this homecoming

and if i listen (like i should)

these outcrops of peaceful


should be enough

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