that weird December microclimate
(the poorest electorate in NZ)
where we'd been drenched in sun. A sky
greyer than municipal buildings
unfurled across the Octagon
all the way up to Maori Hill.
A dozen or now more or less
friends forecasted rain in damp flats,
while below us the sea stood still
within easy walking-distance
from our half-house, and a bus-stop
where we risked our lives everyday:
sometimes I drank water from the tap,
but that day I sat with seagulls
on slate steps of a Catholic church,
half-naked and turning purple;
off for another family Christmas,
I knew that you were somewhere else
entirely, re-acclimatised,
patiently waiting for your bus
at Dunedin's historic train-station,
as rope-heads from Arc and poets
sunbathed and smoked and burned alive.
The water was too cold for me.
(body if not mind). You look odd.
My script seems to rewrite itself
genetically. A self-serving God
observes you as you right yourself,
soft-boned and heavy limbed, to walk
in time, usurp your sister's place
in our affections, attempt talk
in lieu of tears. Notice how your face
is becoming less your own day
by day? From liquid into air
you shot-out to fumble your way
through a world in which near and dear
recede and detach. Overwhelmed
on your behalf, I wish for you art
and everything to rule your realm
true to yourself and to your heart.