1 Haratua


The light is clear after rain

but it is cold and the days are

short.  The wet roads and

puddles throw the sky back

at itself and the windless

dusk accumulates wood smoke

along the horizon line of hills.

I can see the bright yellow

pairings of car headlights

coming down the street across

the valley and the birds

stroking inland for the night.


After we went over the will

I walked home and thought

how the day we had discussed then

now lay ahead somewhere

made by our words a little

clearer but still opaque;

a smudge in the future

I would occupy knowing

exactly what it meant but still

unable to comprehend

the words:

Do not resuscitate.


Were we like Gods constructing

our own fate? Spare me.

Give me this day:

5pm in the fading bright

final light.  Home to see the

night fall from my window.

The bare trees not symbols.

Nor the season.


The trees, nor the season

nor the night.

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I wrote a book called Kaitiaki o te Pō