He Rākau Tiere
(+ In memorium – R.M.P, 1935-2014)
Kōanga
is the time
the cherry shakes her flower
when the tui raises hell
up high
flurry scuffle sigh
and petals
give up the fight
and float away
softly now
blown
on purse lipped
nautilus
This was the year
the axe
was raised high
for you
my cherry tree
I asked two helmeted guys
sporting bright orange Huskies,
‘would you mind if I
save the trunk?’
one shrugs his shoulders
releasing
a chain of words
sink blade deep
‘Mate…she’s dead but still standing
if you know what I mean
just an old, diseased tree’
bit late, the other says, but go for it.
And so over the next couple of hours
I struggle
with the weight of you
your memories
your game-playing
and your hyperbole
stacked high
unceremoniously
like these offcuts
pieces of something
broken down
collapsed
neither sure of its’ footing
nor of what remains
so a free ride
is what I am offering
back home
small thanks
I know
for the near century
you spent saluting traffic along this road
heoi, he mihi nei
mō ngā peka hei te whakamaru
green leaves and shade in summer
and in spring
every day a wedding
or some win
as you
joyously toss
clouds of pink
and white petal
into the air
ngā whakawhetai ki a koe e rākau ora
I chant
as I push my galvanised waka
along St Lukes
carrying your delicate remains
home
slice by slice
until nothing
of you
remains
but a small scar
near a concrete lip
a stump threatened by kikuyu
as we quote scripture and throw dirt over you
and back here, for those who go looking,
it is only Betty Rose Newick
cast in bronze
that will be remembered
But for you
nobody will remember this spot
where you once harvested the nor-wester
in those powerful limbs
now the nautilus will sweep over
and nobody will remember your place
while we test the roots
and fumble around
the hollow
to feel
where you once stood.
