Tairua.

We met Tu’ this morning, on the beach, surrounded by yellow freesias.

We picked some of the vivid blooms and put them in an old milk bottle from the batch.


We were lured up the mountain by the promise of the unknown and were caught by the view.

The sea to the south looked solid and dark, islands lay flat and fixed.

To the north the the air danced with light and the land shivered and bulged and glared.


We went back to the foot of Paku and watched the sun set and the tides drain.

False Flag.

I used to believe that Hone Heke saw out his days here and I imagined his spirit paddling in the same warm, shallow water as us.

Anawhata.

Anawhata.

Between the clattering flax,

Above the papakianga,

The wind blows fiercely, so

That sticks dance on the beach.

Binney, in the form of shag, flies low to see my painting, and says that;

“I must try harder”

I reply; “at least I’m alive and not a bird.”