Other Tribes

for Chris & Neil Boyd

What became of the other tribes –
without most-favoured status
not bequeathed the holy speak?

What became of their lonely bands
their pipes, their drums, as they
combed earth’s seas and sands

for something to call their own
in the voice of the wind –
a place to stop, to claim as home?

See their bonfires burning
hear the sound of laughter
of singing, pipes and drums

in the middle of the night
high on a hillside the winning air:
the winning fires, the winning anthem.

Seaside Vaudeville

The blind sun descends a turquoise sky
a bullet sings through the air.

He does not know his name is there
until the wind lulls, it starts to rain

and a darkling thrush illuminates
a felicitous pheasant chiming in –

a good measure of silence filled.
But this is not to say it’s too late

for though he may already be
dead to one world, he’s awakened to another:

the tragi-comic circumstances
overcome by reassembling

of the firing squad; a puff of wind
a slow-motion of heavenly bodies.

An Empty House in Titirangi

for my parents

Empty rooms admit the light –
at the windows leaves abide
curious, alert, intent.

The people have passed on
leaving faint, whispered echoes
in the gently swaying air.

The people have passed on
but not the ferns, flowers:
magnolia, bougainvillea, manuka.

The people have passed on
but not the shrubbery, trees:
kauri, rimu, golden elm.

From the driveway entrance
through the canopy of leaves
the western sun peeps in

his lustrous fingers drawing back
the curtains, populating
the house once more.