by Topher Shields
At the headlands,
basalt hums—
a low warmth
held in stone.
Wind lifts
the koru of flax,
and the air tastes
of salt, of split ehu kai.
Tangaroa stirs
blue-green sleep,
unfurling vowels
older than ash.
We listen:
each wave a karakia
relearning its tongue
on the shore—
sometimes mispronounced,
sometimes breaking
before the mouth can hold it.
Somewhere beneath
the stone skin,
the ancestors turn
in their dreaming,
and the sea—
still whispering
vowels—
calls back their names,
one blurred
to huna kai,
one gone.
Topher Shields is a poet from Aotearoa, New Zealand. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, Cordite Poetry Review, Washington Square Review, Santa Clara Review, Mantis, The Shore, DIALOGIST, Querencia Press, and Pinyon Review, among others. His poetry has been recognized by the Bedford International Poetry Competition, The Rialto Nature & Place Poetry Competition, and River Heron Review.
Hawaii Pacific Review 