The sun is out and strong,
strength in these pale hands
purposeful yet
as I make my way to the summer house

There are seedlings to check
nestled in Spring warmth
greening sun through cracked glass
black and fecund Waikato earth

Buried here are myths of long ago
I crouch and try to mould them back
with magic and clay and water
No power in these incantations
these strange shapes remain lifeless
and I am suddenly too weary
to caress them into resurrection

Perhaps I should pass over
enjoy the slow poison of this content
I have, after all, my present icons
and a vague testament
of you on that Bay of Plenty Beach
staring at the sea,
one hand deep in the pocket of your coat
the other holding back your hair
his dog, circling like some guilty comic

Gathering the remaining seeds
I quietly close the door
and in a moment of idle worship
sprinkle them to the sun
well aware of the dangers
of the forced baptism
and you face down in the water

This must be the double cross
God has asked us to bare.



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