arriving in hunua

weeks
now, a homestead
with a very long
driveway
autumn,
her leaves
a single
sheep, there
sideways
in bones, there
in the corner
of a paddock
“don’t look”
she said.

lachlan
lucas, together
wrapped
in boyhood
in a heap
of compost building
tunnels
in tiny
gum boots
adventuring
down towards
a gypsy caravan,
a shepherd’s
hut, arena
garden in squares
growing rhubarb
and roses
the magnolias
confused, blooming
and some things
are lying down
after summer
finished
and tired

the luminaries
buttonholes
rains
doo-hawg’s
the name
of a border collie
and there are four
cats:

minnie
snuffy
ouchie cat
and mr. pants

quiet weekends
head cold baking
marshmallows
planting
bulbs weeding
the artichokes,
the nasturtiums

sitting outside
on steps, coloured
pencils writing
a letter
to nathan john
to new hampshire
that months later
got sent back

little chaos
reoccurrence
house on fire
(still and still)

low and low
i do what i want
no hair, only
a few small
centimeters
left, those blues
they got to me
and anyways now
i’m a real
peach

shades of green
and florals-
wallpaper,
pink wine
rose apples
how they call dinner
“tea”, discovering
the inside
patterns the
perfume
of feijoas

still they come

one

still they come
little deaths
we have much
to bury, yet –

letter from maine
coffee dark
morning, past
eleven – it’s been
so long, she kept saying
your cat, she said
cancer
darling

our cat darling
thumbs
and tiger stripes.

glancing
around the room
the window covering
my mouth how
it came out, up
through corners
knowing
this is part of it –
the finishing
of things.