Published on April 5, 2023
Kia ora koutou, aroha mai — this is the last Busk. My eyesight is getting
worse, my eyes get sore and tired so I have to be selective. I have a few other
things I want to write and work on so while I’m still going to be writing in the
mornings, reading/researching in the afternoons, making cheese scones (who
cares if they’re shaped a bit wonky?) and meeting some of you at readings
and workshops, I will not be producing the Busk.
Thanks to all my readers. Special thanks to Miriam. You are all stars.
Here is my poem Tiger Country.
You plunge off the cliff into Tiger Country
sleek and smiling tigers play hide and seek
slope around abandoned chairs, sad tables
silk cushions call encouragement from the sofa
an old painting turns its face to the wall.
Tigers lurk in old cards, beneath yours forever
snooze under Christmas lights that never worked
lope ahead to a destination only they know
signposts are suspect; there is no tunnel, no light
nobody pins a tail on these tigers.
Some nights after the sun has flamed
and seabirds search the pastures of the sea
tigers come out and lean gentle over your chair —
wrap you in a striped shawl of sturdy warmth
fold their paws and purr soft in the silent room.
This is the danger time. Stand up. Walk slow.
Their eyes are on the game and you’re it.