The firmament above, the Southern Cross
wrapped up in my infancy, fifty miles to
Pukeoware's undulating hills, the merest mention
of macrocarpa and I am transported back
when all was transparently still, comfortable,
the smooth feel of warm eggs nestled amongst hay
and feathers, the slow walk through three fields
filled with mushrooms and bulls, forever chasing
my shadows, laughing as each magpie eyed
the steel of my buckle, a stick in hand my only defence,
that creek where I would spend all afternoon fishing for eels.
Blood, all life attracts to this smell. Earth, the rain floods
each dip and cranny. Forget-me-nots, freed of the warmth
of compost, to live and die, to bloom and repeat this cycle
when I am gone.