AT A RIVER TO THE ETHER
The Clutha has a momentumready to carry your afterself into twilight.You picture aone to laud an exile granted clemency.It seems right to marvel at aquamarine, the cascadetinctured along its muddy travel. There's shelter in rimu,hidden under cirri, at rest on the haze of your mindat the edge of this shore. This posture suggeststhat you mean the current to shape you, and musinghas gained its own torrent like an alchemy.Other lives spring from your mouth, on clay dustlodged as residue in your throat. You can taste the icestarting to glide heat's impetus to the riverand melting quickly. It's time to savour the tangof the Hawkdun Range. Pause feeds reflection.The journey is stayed; your ideas are strandedin the gyre of a kind of eddying never-thought.Hints of a lyric have nuanced your huffing.In jolts, the night's tears are dimpling the scarfyou've used lately as a mask around your grimace.Yodelling makes you a diva. Echoes give kudosto this idea. You're laughing. Rain is arriving.You'll find magic elsewhere next, in a realm of totarathat mimics a refugee's shrug outside this clearing.
