Poem from the Motueka Library

Sleeping cold grey hills, rumbling stomach
Release the rain,
Open wound a manner of spite,
Drooping eyes, dripping sky.


Mounting darkness leaves the ground,
Littered shadows to
Closing trees, scrabble for shelter
These games, these games, pen and paper.


I tire
looking for land
Upon which to stand,
Make my bread, duvet cover,
Inner.


The silence grows,
Bleats and squawks as ears listen.
Trembling heart, eyelids close
Forget the thought,
It was never yours.


The third person says to self:
Observe the first, just
Keep your eyes on her, don’t look away
Keep you eyes on her
Rising. From the carbon
We’re all made.


At the end
The day is dim,
Dimming dimmer
As mist becomes vaguer.
And dreams dream of themselves
Traps spring
From set-pieces.


I am finished.