“you still living in Hikurangi?”
I tell ‘em, “yeah.”
“lovin’ the Liquid Ambar next door,
the red leaves that fall down on us.
the railway track over the fence
aaaaaaaaawhich you can look down both ways
to a vanishing point.
the 4 damn churches. the toi toi in bloom,
with the morning sun shining through like a halo,
blessing us all.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaathe view of town
when you come over the top of King Street
— looking like the wild west. the Hikurangi Hotel
with its dark wood interior, pokie machines
& whale’s dick over the bar.
the Saturday night bands with their names in chalk.
the guy who wears overalls, who crosses the road
at the same place everyday with his two dogs,
who gruffly says hello.
the reggae that blasts from the house 3 up from ours.
the dairy, its cracked blue ceramic tiles
& corner relief of a bull’s head;
the Four Square that sells ready-made
vegetarian curries.
the miner’s cottages & villas; the eastern hills
with chopped down pine, gorse & scrub,
so that it’s not picturesque.
the crossroads 6.7km out of town
in the middle of the swamp, where you can stand
in peace.
the old stone path that gets covered in leaves,
broken glass, cigarette butts & tinnies.
the young scruffies standing outside the Ruraltec
talking about cars, girls & Xbox.
the old primary school, the classrooms in winter
when it’s raining & the heaters are on;
being 7 years old.
the dump & its growing piles
of usable junk, the cheap framed photos on the fence,
the bending of the rules.
the limestone rocks that tourists used to visit.
aaaaaaaaaaa— because there’s room to imagine
being somewhere else.
& our hill, the hill that Ngapuhi forgot.”
