Maungawhau

Sometimes, I walk rooms of that

house in half-light. In

museums the mind makes

 

nothing moves behind glass;

installations sleep, frozen actors

playing nothing to startle

 

anyone. Tiny boy dreaming, a wee

wooden cot, couple watching

TV; sparse furnishings speak of

 

souls gone cold; if I try hard

moments flare – my muscles taut,

still thirty, making wooden runes

from scavenged kauri or

 

Sam amid the orange tree

Einstein hair, pukunui in a pale

blue t-shirt,

 

promise of a smile

– but Maungawhau is best left

sleeping;

 

why summon its dead fire?

 

 

 

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3 thoughts on “Maungawhau

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