Writing

Pohutukawa’s crimson
unfurls
in the twelfth month.
No more pain of being in the bud.

Beauty blossoms the landscape
of the bare heart
warming it like the breath of creatures
healing like nectar.

Veined leaves
rustle in the evening
with a felt underbelly of moisture
softening.

Dark red heart wood
roots resting in infinity
interweave wisdom and story
of our eternal Mother.

Seeds white as Ngauruhoe snow
carried through the air
with spirit of salt spray and wind
share the ancient commandment of life.

Leaves fall
in the wintry light
limbs becoming bare,
withstanding.

Circles of time sanctified
storms
sunshine
fragile hope.

Nothing more holy
in the ninth month.

©Hilary Oxford Smith
©Image: Pohutukawa Abstract, Harold Coop