These trees that hang over the bay
shedding red stamens – the Natives call it
pohutukawa. Like a discreet servant
the tide enters. My children run to meet it
barefoot, brown-skinned. I call them savages.
They seem to fear nothing, born to this wild land.
I scrub the floor with sand. The pine whitens
and the grain shows through more clearly.
Last year the local hapu took my husband.
They told him, ‘Eat and grow so you will make
good kai for us.’ After two nights they laughed
and let him go – told him, ‘Long pig, run home!’
Two days ago a war party stopped at our door –
took pork from my kitchen. I couldn’t speak.
Naked, beautiful men – by now they may be dead,
or eating the dead.
Light dances on the water,
sharpens the headland’s edge and the far horizon –
a brightness that speaks to the soul. Home is the dream.
I fear for myself, longing for a sail, and letters.