Iona Winter

up here the city is like a war zone

sirens-helicopters-violence

with indigenous forms commodified on buildings

and some of my friends will say they’re immune

 

i’m impatient for harakeke wind-song

old gnarled scented-blossom trees

and familiar paths out to the pā

kāinga-home beckons me

 

up here people live under concrete bridges

amidst the steady hum of traffic

to lull them to sleep

while governments refuse to tackle poverty

 

i watch my wrist-pulse flutter

pumping blood craves my kāinga

with its generous expansive sky

and ever-present rhythm of the sea