Tane Mahuta
Tāne Mahuta is a god
with bad posture.
He likes to think
last weekend’s torrential downpour is to blame
for the burning sensation at his ankles.
Must we remind him,
residing on earth is no easy task
when you can’t remember
where you last left your feet.
A canopy of fast-talking Kauri
skip river pebbles across
their consonants
from Kaikohe to Waipoua.
85 minutes spent with open ribs
embracing faceless trees.
I’m a stranger
burning 91
on nonchalant asphalt
just short of embracing the Hokianga.
Te Matua Ngahere críes and the valley’s chatter diminishes.
Rest easy
his bloodshot trunk bleeds.
This may be home
but this air is foreign.
Tāne Mahuta is oblivious to the dieback disease.
To crude marzipan injected
into his desperate roots.
Every morning I wake
with the needle in my hand.
Don’t let Waipoua forget how
to look up.
While they sleep
manoeuvre your body from the bed,
dislodge the bedtime story,
and allow your exchanges to grow slow and
irregular.
I’ll comfort you
through the deafening silence,
of final hot tears
below a double-glazed sky.
He aha te mea nui o te ao
he tangata
He aha te mea tino kino
he tangata
