Writing

whitebone trunks stand
undeterred by death
to consecrate the clearing
in which we laden slump

on weighty packs, prostrate
unburdened & enlightening
strong men slowly learn
to carry less in life

this miro vault
an offering of spring grass
pig-hallowed & rabbit-holy
divine, yet no place special

sacred the ground
no matter where you linger,
exigence & a simple upward gaze
are all that's needed to erect a temple

for cathedrals
are but spires risen
serendipitous in any place
you choose to need them

©peter clague

Image Whitebone Trunks, Peter Clague

three nights in the Hurunui
those were holy days for sure
such are our observances
tracts to a slab door

bowed beneath the straps
on beam in drizzle night
resurrected by dawn’s pane
where tawa fractures light

creek sway is a liturgy
boot chant of our youth
brotherhood of the billy
who seek a tannin truth

this priest who walks before me
bent kneed & lancewood rod
the salt & savour of him
who shares my native god

© peter clague

Image Sunrise in the Hurunui, Jose Francisco

‘Tis easy,
is it not,
to allow those who walk
halls of power
to assume
‘larger than life’
presence,
as if your sphere
of influence,
is too small
to be of any note.
Your voice,
the truths you know,
at the core of your being,
shrink within,
dwindling to  wondering whispers
across your heart’s landscape.
Your knowing,
rises from the belly,
rages even within,
clamouring to be heard,
though seldom spoken aloud.
(except in the privacy of your home, maybe?)
Words of prophetic potentiality
lie muted,
behind closed lips,
against the backdrop
of the louder,
relentless,
oft repeated,
sound bite news bits,
presented
as truth,
yet
in reality
nothing more
than slanted
incomplete
woefully inadequate
shards of slivered truth,
distorted to entertain,
not to inform.
‘Tis tempting to accept
the numbing of the brain,
and compassion’s overload
that comes from having
hearts that care,
to accept this
narrowed,
marginalised
space
you now occupy,
and become silent
bystanders
or powerless
witnesses
to the outrageous
injustices writ large on
global screens.
This, however, is not your calling.
You must stand,
speak,
and act
with hope, faith and love
and in integrity,
You must be the people
you proclaim yourselves to be,
no matter how tiny
your sphere of influence
may appear.
Hope rises
with the utterance of
the tiniest of words,
little acts of kindness
and solidarity,
and the first step
and then the next.
You must never forget
that hidden in the oft dismissed
and overlooked ‘tinyness’ of life
lies greatness,
says the mustard seed.

©Gayanne Frater