when I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard (F.O.)
The animals weren’t friendly but I insisted
& they became cordial & if anybody asked I’d tell them from
my place in the eucalypt or oak that I was a conservationist
The proof being my solitude & solitude’s soiled knee Soiled
for purity of intention & a gold star for dedication Dedication
being measurable by the years & the years that follow & the desire
to look up & see more than a mean sun or blue
To look up & see proof of the epiphytic canopy I believed in
Now here I am the centre of all bucolia making a sorry buck
where the catch cry is pittosporum
When did trees get so boring? This is my pose I hardly visit
anymore I pose like it’s someone else’s painting
of just so much windburned cheek
I got lost I guess bad age
I know too many policy analysts & too few self-employed anarchists
or anyone with a free afternoon I’d like to fall in love
with a man who knows the names of trees some Bruce or Dave or
Hemi who says
ngaio will hurt your liver &
rangiora is bad for horses
rewarewa started popping up about ten years ago Diane said
what the hell is this when one grew & blocked the view
The neighbour chopped it down
They were having an affair
kahikatea butter box
torn stocking trunk of kowhai
tawai battered remains
When I was a child
hills were hot with gorse I hid in pine forests saved a blackbird
Now the view through the windshield is as close as I get
But it’s heartening
in this wretched valley to see the new dank walls rising up like a
beautiful threat & I’m kissing a man
who knows the names of birds so that’s a start
