School House Bay
I am wearing poetry
like an overcoat. No a thermal singlet.
I am wearing the wind off the uppity
waves and the green leaves that skim
and the black-barked beech
and the cobbled light.
You can’t see the poem.
I can see the new generation bush
and a single fantail that flits
like a dandelion wish.
My thermal singlet is heavy with ghosts.
It is only the start.
I am picnicking in the thought
of a young girl and her skipping rope.
She looks through the high window.
She draws a tōtara with her sharp pencil.
The grey sky is out of reach.
Does she know the Queens of England?
Does she wear a velvet dress to match the inkwell?
Does she hear the raucous tūī?
Can she pick Istanbul on a map and draw a rectangle?
The porthole slams shut in the wind.
from The Track, Seraph Press, 2019