photo: Christchurch earthquake, 2011, a few hundred meters from where I was living.
and when everything would go wrong
we would get up at night
we would turn to the sky
we would speak to the angels
we would ask for the sun
we would not know how to pray
but we would join our hands
it would only be necessary
to wish ourselves well.
photo: Westland, Christchurch, a place full of silence that speaks.
The voice of silence,
so profound, haunting,
is the one that speaks the most,
that speaks the best.
Words then endeavour
to convey what it means.
photo: Mykonos, is it always the intention that matters?
carrying one’s shell
day after day
then the intention of a window
to get some fresh air
to put thoughts back in their place
but it will never open
photo: a glorious morning in Pohara, the nature invites itself into my mind
The day opens like a pale book
which turns its pages
in the heat of the path.
A suggestion, perhaps,
the wind is thinking in my head.
Summer like a shimmer on the waves
The certainty that the world is older than anxiety
The tide draws a poem at my feet
The truth of the body in the morning sun
photo: ducks trusting the future in the botanical garden, Wellington
it was a matter of pretending
and everything would be just fine
it was about manifesting tenderness
without thinking of tomorrow
when the hand trembles
one leaves it to the gods
the ground trembles too
and heals from its grievings
