1. Right there, at Pencarrow Head, alone
the waves washed o’er
the sunblest blood
hastily, receding in
the tides of your eyes
those eyes, irises of misshapen moons
limp in your exsanguinated pool
right there, at Pencarrow Head, alone.
2. Spume over the road at Point Howard
The waves are fury
white-tipped and malevolent
the mist of breakers
dance like tortured wraiths
spilling across bitumen
by the hairpin bend at Point Howard
the sea lashing: dominatrix-like
the rain falls and falls like sadness,
and the whole roads rises
for a taste of cleanliness,
to be washed, cleansed in the squalls.
3. Drinking Yaqona at Parnell Street
On the mat
at Raymond and Viavia’s house
the men sit crosslegged, reverent
and telling stories
supping from the well
sitting around the tanoa like prophets
silently praying with every sip.
4. poem from pencarrow head today
suddenly, the silhouette of gorsed hillsides
look foreign and primitive
as if I was a lost child climbing out of the mist
the land had an incomprehensive language
& my explorer eyes saw new and distant shapes.
it is good to be alone with your thoughts
in the midwinter sun after lunch
on the potholed road to Baring Head
the track like a seam along the rim of this archipelago
between nature and the urban
& from the chilly bluff, a black comorant flying overhead
heading south, heading onward, leads me home.