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Whangarei head, 1981
Ancient
as I am, fired and forged moon-faced or freshly
formed —
a lost cat lingers, her head an outcrop or island
a brick
almost or paving stone. Once I had a cat the shape
of Northland —
rough-cast, thrown, a reminder that the outer edge of anything is all we ever see.
Face adrift
above its mineral body, or supping from an earthen bowl in kiln-light
its sideways
glance became a scarred, inconsolable face, and its face an imprint
of foot
or paw. Together we sought the company of smoke-like things, of rust
and rustling,
Yvonne of the well- calibrated furnace, her fired-up world from which
arose this
circus of hollowed eyes, music of fingerprinted ears — this allotment
of earth
and the one perfect afternoon of a lamentable year given us.
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