Piet Nieuwland

The way

Walking through a day the sky warms, from a cavern of blue that slides out of dawn, wisps of cloud coalesce above the rolling valleys and ridges, the columns of humidity cooling in banks at altitude, we cross a field, it is a fantasy, it is the dream that I hold, it is the flight of swallows, harriers gliding on updrafts, gannets diving splash through the molten purple silver sheen of the bay, the swirling screeching riot of gulls on the rocks and the smooth measured slip of herons across the banks of raupo marsh, it is how I would speak with you, watch the cadence of your voice filling out the meaning of time, describing the movement of fog banks in the early morning across the dunes, how children play, the changes in their laughter and songs their exploration of the myriad of shadows, the maze of reflection, the labyrinth of paradox, watch your eyes, watch the sparkle, watch the glow, watch the smile, the sand streaming through your hair, the plump curve of your belly, the dream of the kiss that dissolves the whole curvature of personality and distance, the crossover of tenses, the tangling, the fire paths of arrows trailing silk threads that weave and spin, catching branch-lets, flowers, leaves and feathers in their cast, pieces of shell, small stones, seeds, of kowhai and karaka, the bones of a lizard, a fragment of pottery, the gift of sight, the energy of touch, and passion of scent, it was, it is for you, the heat, it rises, the clouds buffet and fuse, above that line of surf between the harbour heads, from that boulder lying pregnant in the sand, the alignment of strings, cloth stretched over sticks and painted faces, the breeze lifting the idea, the wind floating with te manutukutuku, pass the message, hold your hand, feel the direction of pulses, become the person who is that wavelength of light refracting through tissues that dance with the voice of stars, the distant hum of galaxies, the way.


Outside the melting window a forest of memories sang
Sang with the delight of Harpogornis mooreii soaring

The endless blue sky hit the buildings edge dissolving
Into plastic nano-particles and hydrocarbons of cars

At a temperature of one hundred and four the dilated pores
Of the epidermal surface exude a sticky blue serum

The morning was all yellow, yellowish and gooey. We walked into the
Painting swallowing bananas tinged with cinnamon, honey and burnt toast

Footsteps echoed from the hallway,
A caterpillar crawling towards metamorphosis

The floor of polished wax skidded us, slip and fall without
The slightest sense of gravity
A red dart kite attempted lift-off

Piet Nieuwland has poems and flash fiction appear in numerous print and online journals published in New Zealand, Australia, USA, Canada and India. He is a performance poet, edits Fast Fibres Poetry and lives near Whangarei in northern New Zealand.

He has just started a personal website: https://pietnieuwland.simplesite.com/
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