He iti, ahakoa he pounamu hoki
From the cord’s end, the catch produced
her jawbone hook. A thousand pencils
sharpened to this soft point, time
took a new first breath. The boat
seemed smaller, we noticed more keenly
the breeze, the chop, the nation
hushed. Metaphor cannot hold her,
she is like and unlike all the others,
only the plainest best words
will serve for our prime miniature.
©John Adams 2018
John is an Auckland-based poet.