Fall Lines
I have to change this sweaty shirt.
Heart is racing, toenails hurt.
Seven hundred metres climbed,
I seem to have gone back in time:
Up through ancient bearded beech
where fantails squeak and kākā screech
and now up to this boulder field
which has an even older feel.
Take it in and breathe the air.
I am no hare, but I am here!
(I think that’s what the tortoise said)
And now, a tune by Portishead
has wormed its way into my ear:
a lilting thing that’s very dear.
The melody is very thin,
I think it’s on a theremin.
My brain’s decided that's the theme
to this Jurassic, dreamlike scene.
It heralds in the hero who...
Yes, here he is! As if on cue,
a little bobbing Pīwauwau
appears stage left, proceeds to go
behind, then circles round his rock,
remaining safe but taking stock
of me, this giant sweaty gnome,
intruding in his mountain home.
He's intricate, ephemeral.
A tiny clockwork emerald.
In these divine and upper niches
Gilviventris ably hide.
Just one more endangered species
holding on against the tide.
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