Nell is the last to arrive. Her stick searches for
the second row, tapping backs of chairs.
Yet she's not without grace, edging
between us with bantam steps.
Kia ora she whispers, her nose finding mine.
At seventy-five she's the oldest student.
I watch her fingers twirl a button on her shirt,
pluck at pleats and I think of a bird
But when we're asked to talk about our place
of birth, Nell tilts her head to one side
and listens as if she were a stranger in a language-
forest and alert to every sound.
Then it's Nell's turn to speak.
Ko Rotoma taku rota.
How slowly she circles the letter
o. Rotoma; Roto
ma. There's awe in her voice and
after.
When the class is over, Nell and I linger
on the drive. We drag our shoes
in dusty pebbles. Stopping by the bridge
we're cooled by an arch of toetoe stems
and an old pohutukawa tree
still in flower.
the winter solstice is over
July is colder
it's late afternoon and I sit at the forest margin
wanting to be healed of a sickness
a lancewood points its leaves downwards
a shadow creeps along the bark of a tree
orchid stems are flowerless
to the lancewood that will lift up its branches
to the gecko in a dip of sun
to the lowlands with their hooded orchids
I surrender
over there in the gully
moss is white with morning dew
as it was on the day you departed