By Mercedes Webb-Pullman
low tide at Tutukaka;
sea-front pohutukawa’s
scarlet blossoms
match channel markers
the mud salt rot smell
is unchanged
flags from different worlds
wave in the new marina
where once my father, my uncles
caught schnapper
rigging clatters
in the breeze
drowning sounds
of flax chatter
I raise a beer
to family bones
in the hills behind me
and the off-shore wind
blows a hollow tangihanga
over the bottle neck
another message
years have rendered
cryptic
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