and he stands between us and the wet light of the Pacific
islands like the moon passing through a phase
he guards this passage
perhaps us
nights in the cabin with the kids asleep underfoot
or listening in the dark
days running for the tops of hills
the ends of points
any place a line might sail in
(that curve
breathing tenderness saying we are so close
need so much
so many times over
we keep moving tangling the lines
and the great distances grow dangerous
unless the wind on your face
is also my breath
in the hollow of your throat
and we go on like that
forever
for good
times feet on the porch rail in the late sun
roasting paschal lamb stuck with rosemary
waiting for the others
the canoe the car
the crab-catchers line-casters lake-finders
the shore-walkers bird-watchers book-readers
letter-writers lily-sniffers
snake-chasers shell-hunters egg-painters
the eaters of spice buns and bacon
(the Sunshine Breakfast warm at the oven door
phenomenal scrambled eggs
the whole crew
coming in now
dice-rollers gin-drinkers hangovers
crowded round the table again
light on their faces reflected Pacific
morning’s say-so
or the sweet chiaroscuro of candles
orange skins thrown on the fire
wood brought in for the night
under the skewed eyes of the woodgrain beast
whose portrait hangs over the hearth
bear dog coyote
or ocean chart for those who flunked the tacky gestalt
who saw only stars
who took islands as they came
here
here
here
and here
and had to be shown eyes nose mouth (Pacific spaces
or head
fins
tail
Te ika a Māui
or the navel of the world away off to the south there
Te pito o te henua
attached by the cords of memory and desire
to the improbable the very delicate the invincible
beginning
‘my’ Easter island
Show me the star charts and I will show you
plans for a future hung between Georgia and Hauraki
Auckland and Valparaiso
Easter and Pender
place where the whales came in
and
space where they used to sing
a future the shape of a bellied sail
twenty eight names for the winds of Rapa Nui
and what matters is the distance they’re blowing into the sail
that it be navigable
to the mind wanting voices (the mid-ocean gam
gathering word
from wherever whatever
walking out on mnemonic extremities
eyes nose mouth navel
to the plane at infinity
takeoff!
The bird-men of Easter Island were egg thieves
and so are we
out in the orchard where the kids hunt what’s left
of the chocolate cache
among the dripping trees
in cold spring
I lie awake before sunrise
even breathing and eyelid curves all around
the crew is dreaming of crabmeat salads and exorbitant lamb
and somehow
a fantasm of island raspberries and double cream gets into the picture
with a flourish of past summerings
and the whiff of a biddable future (is it greed
or appetite
has us out wading the terraces again for the big red crabs
basking on beds of gently waving sea-lettuce
which turns a wistful eye on the great shells
left by the ebb on the bottom of Ella Bay?
a
