Camp bed hard against the wall beyond the reach of weather.
Open verandah. Farm house.
Parents and siblings, dead inside their wooden mausoleum,
Await a resurrection with the dawn.
Out here the night’s alive with sights and sounds and smells.
The night is mine.
Cock calls to cock across the reaches of the Kaihu Valley.
Dog answers distant dog.
Pukekos in the swamp conduct a family disagreement.
Hens mutter in their sleep.
Somewhere a steel coffin grumbles forward in a pool of light.
These sounds are mine.
The fowl-yard’s near. Just through the hedge. Droppings, ammonia,
Underpin more pleasant smells.
Frangipani, trellised Jasmine, fruit trees in their bridal bloom.
Mother earth herself.
Close by couched cows chew cud. A favourite smell is healthy kine.
The subtle blend is mine.
And overhead the jewelled canopy that’s hidden from the street-lit towns
Here crisp and hard and cold.
Time travelled from outer reaches. Nomad comets adding to the wonder.
Some faint and some spectacular.
The fleeting glory of the meteorite that puntuates the heaven’s march to morn.
These gems are mine.
Wind and frost I know them well, aquaintances not friends, I snub them.
Shrink into my blanketed cocoon.
Rain though is welcome. Lightly wafting down or drumming on bare iron above
He sings a soporific lullaby.
It’s happening out here with hedgehog snuffles, tiny scuffles. Others are abroad
To share the night with me.