Owen took this photo.
Weka with a Walking Stick
little tokoeka comes hobbling along the strand
planting his walking stick
in every likely bit of wrack
big clown feet marking up the beach
with dinosaur tread
tiny round bum barely balancing him out
and we’re all transfixed
our prayers answered
but this biggish bird just keeps going about
his jolly way
slowly becoming mammal
not realizing a whole people
have named themselves after him
south
sand like snakes
runs to the end of the world
long braided rivers of grit
fly a hair’s breadth above the packed shore
desperate to hurl every grain
into the insistent southern ocean
the greenstone sea claws at each stream
turns it under pulls it out deep
toward the aching cold white
where ice and pole call
in a shrill whine
that won’t be denied
Dias Beach Absolution
upon rounding sharp cliffs
after the men voted no confidence
and the final three days the crew allowed
before their bellies would mutiny
(a pathetically short extension
to reach a hopelessly faraway shore)
had elapsed with no end of Africa in sight
after he halted and buried
he dreams of Indian spices
at Kwaaihoek on the eastern Cape
the unused padrões lay heavy in the hold
and the threat of returning
to the mindless minding of Lisbon’s warehouses
grew more terrifying with each league
of aquamarine the São Cristóvão sliced through
he saw this crescent of inviting beach
and he fell upon it
I forgive you,
Bartolomeu,
for wanting to sink your ankles
in fine white sand
for wishing to slake your salty thirst
with waterfall
for wanting to warm yourself
by a blaze fed by armloads of driftwood
for nestling your body
into the yielding dunes
that molded themselves to your hips
for soiling this land with your unwanted presence
before the Khoikhoi hurled rocks in righteous anger
before the Cabo das Tormentas
seized your own heart and limbs
despite all the damage
your kind wrought
I forgive your need for one night
of slowly spinning stars
