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.