By | 1 February 2016

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.]

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