04-30-2018, 06:55 AM
It calls me still,
the place where toi toi grows lush between
clumps of flax in the swampy marsh,
where pohutukawa’s wind-whipped limbs
shelter the morepork owl,
where cold streams race
deep in glades between distant ridges,
where sound, once heard, vanishes
with no more trace than snowflakes
melting on an outstretched hand.
A train whistle fading
through darkness lit only by moon,
and glow worms; the siren call
of the world that lay in wait
and claimed me.
the place where toi toi grows lush between
clumps of flax in the swampy marsh,
where pohutukawa’s wind-whipped limbs
shelter the morepork owl,
where cold streams race
deep in glades between distant ridges,
where sound, once heard, vanishes
with no more trace than snowflakes
melting on an outstretched hand.
A train whistle fading
through darkness lit only by moon,
and glow worms; the siren call
of the world that lay in wait
and claimed me.