I prefer paths worn to those laid out;
the blending of grass from centre to edge
by the passing of continual feet
rivals the shading of Old Masters.

Down these paths seed-head and flower
brush calves, but don’t impede,
because enough of us walk this way,
descending with each unique promise.

*

The southern wind edges the waves
moving across the bay; white lines of static
flicker and vanish: a jumpy picture of turquoise-blue
blotted with shadows from dampened clouds.

Amidst the froth and crests of roughening seas
the birds in the distance race to a haven
at the north end of Tokerau, where the sands curve
behind the rocks marked with Kupe’s net.

*

The rain comes. It’s too much to stay 
exposed on the stone altar
of a church, or in the circle of a henge. 
From the sea we must retreat.

I look back at the dimpled sand;
our footprints already fading. We turn
into the gloom of leaf and frond, follow the path
of pressed grass shimmering like a stream.