The ghosts are all around us now,
caressing the grasses, the leaves
on each branch … they won't let go,
just yet. Their dance makes the wind
brush the clouds across the sky …
strokes of an orangish hue
reflected in the gold of your eyes.
It is summer, a quiet breath
before the rain, and I am reminded
of how often they would say
the rain belonged to Rangi
as he reached for Papa through
the waves of air and miles of night.
But that was in the time before words –
the land, only a recent memory to the sky.