When, creased in the curves
of the Hana road last month
I pulled ahead of a curtain of rain
to see blue and white froth
heave its bulk onto the black walls
of those familiar volcanic flanks
it was with the ghosts of
every lover ever, every friend
and every stranger that I
turned down into the old
familiar road, the one
that leads to the church
and then to the snaggletooth rocks
against which the sea likes to
beat and foam.
And later, miles and hours later
standing in the falling glitter
of a rain that was as much sun
I watched mists rise from valley headwalls
and felt the valley watching me
stood there as life lifted from the
saturated, fern-splashed cliffs
and vibrated all around me
and time making one curve
around again to the times
the so many times
I’d stood there in the presence
of the falling lace, Waimoku
oh Waimoku
well aware of being seen, perceived
standing small inside the soaring walls
of falling water and green, green light.
