Te Henga In Storm

I slice the golden river of sand
rushing out to
Te Henga’s spume-driven sea
and marvel at gulls fighting against
an impossible westerly blow,
which lifts the raging stream up
over the vertical cliff face.
I have lost an inch of my face,
I am sure, as I fight out to the
angry edge,
wind-whipped sea from the chaos
of ocean.

Oh, the surface,
under that is Te Henga,
wind-whipped
sand, running, racing,
from the sea.
So wild, my demon lover,
she calls me closer.
I can see her calling out to me.

I can only think of land, the violent
sky, the earth, as one,

primordial creatures unseen by our
eyesight’s sight-seeing,
genomes and dna minute,
the old blood crust of sore on
my hand,
as intimate as a friend but not the
skin of it,
Tane’s land long chopped
renamed after some man
named Bethel,
Te Henga’s skin flaked off as
summer’s peel.

So wild a dangerous lover, she calls
me closer.
Can you hear her calling out to me?
Oh, the surface, under, that is
Te Henga, wind-whipped
sand racing,

racing for the sea.