keen

Published by

Iona Winter

on

i walk the mist swathed whenua

into light captured spiderwebs

lakeside swans poke their arses in the air

to remind me of what has been stripped bare

homeless people sleep near the bubbling springs at night but come morning are moved on—make way for the tourists, this is not your home

a stillness belies the mauri underfoot

listen

to the dampened whisper

as Papatūānuku keens

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