waikumete in tempera
seedheads brush against mossy headstones,
it puts her in mind of a painting. someone
has mowed rows between graves,
expecting descendants to pilgrimage.
nothing is ever all the way lost.
Two children daring each other to touch an electric fence
In winter your muscles fasten together in an icy paralysis. You walk barefoot on the railway – your feet warmed by the rumble of trains. You can feel their vibrato as they approach, shaking the dewdrops on the frost-bound earth.
You hold fast to the sleepers, enamoured by the headlights and the scream of the whistle.