kua mate tetahi atu he totara kei mua e kata te ra

[another totara has died before the day laughs]


as morning pokes its sullen fingers

                                         t h r o u g h

sentinel                                                    clouds, 
we trace liminal

                 the scurfy scrub

whimpering to itself

like a wounded dog.
the karanga is a piano

trilling umpteen notes;

pullulating the penumbra

in acid flashback;
a cascade staircase

that climbs all over us,

before our ears can think.
inside the scabrous palings

we phalanx ourselves

through the footsore legion

who bestow us forward

like magi.
all heads defrocked & doleful,

as karakia births the dawn.                  


[karanga – Māori – call onto marae/ karakia – Māori – prayer.]