He sits around, watching things wither.

Retrace his steps like the laziest river.

It is open and obvious:

the East Coast lifting its skin,

taupunga, opunga, poutama

sliding into the subsoil’s dark mouth.

Chains strung through the paddocks,

He calls it measurement.

Fences holding their breath.

When dawn arrives, it brings a blade

spring opening itself along the hillsides,

cutting through what remained.

——————

The soil heaves,

rope waterlogged,

slack.

The eye winces,

then pours.

He took a mouthful of silt and tasted nacre.

Something sharp encased in its patient shell

a mettle pearl lodged in his throat.

Pressed against the lofty embankment,

He still accuses:

“You have become unrecognisable to me”

The Tūtaekuri said nothing,

but breached in the night,

and took the settlement away.