Karori Sanctuary #1

Deep in the valley the
North Westerlies are waging
a campaign of mass destruction.
Up and down its slopes young saplings
are rippling in unison like a
Len Lye installation.

We are huddled under an
adolescent Beech tree.
As it sways we feel the earth
creaking and groaning beneath us,
roots tearing at the fabric of Papa’s soil,
fighting to turn tendrils to the sky.

The kinetic force of the weather
exerts its pressure on
all living form. We are
slapped into awareness of the
world, shoved sideways
by gusts swept in by the wave
of a Taniwha’s tail,
swept away by the rage of
Rangi’s sky-borne tears.

We are small and we can
try to hide, shelter in our
drafty villas, shying away from
fingers poking through
cracks in floorboards and
under sash window frames.
We can turn coward but
how better to raise fists at
Rangi, plant feet into Papa’s
rain-slick side.

We are part wild.
We are Karaka berries.
We are lurking eels.
Rain falls on us and
on flax leaves alike.
We shake feathers and
turn faces to the hanging
sky. We smirk
at the wind.