Russell is a pony-tailed man,
bearded, grey, jacketed in leather.
A Harley parked in the drive.

Russell is the sound of paper,
mynah birds sketched on paper,
bullet holes in a church.

A pohutukawa reaches down
and hugs Russell
who doesn’t want
to be hugged.

Russell was once known as old blue
as in sweet, penguin-like,
amassing at night.

This was before the red.
The great ruddy Russell.

And then it was romantic
heaving itself upon the shore.

And now it’s just sleepy
in the same way
old men become sleepy
who have been
to hell and back.

Welcome to Russell
say the stones under my feet.

Bill Nelson