Samantha Montgomerie is a Dunedin writer. Her poems have been published in various publications, including Landfall and the anthology Penguin Days. She also enjoys writing fiction for children and was recently shortlisted for the Storylines Joy Cowley Award.
A koru comes to mind. In that lull before evening’s fall,
he smooths the slab, feels water caressing stone in Fiordland.
It sits bare in the chilled air, stilled and dry, after century on
century of rolling tides massaging – snow-melt and rain-pour
moulding as they lapped and folded on the fringes of the world –
water licking rock. Confetti leaves fell and floated on the flick of waves,
the reverend bird’s cry, cracking sky, collar pulsing on his heaven-ward flit,
while clad in ivory, mountains eyed this coupling of sea and stone, the lone
witnesses from dusk to dawn since the push from Earth’s core. ‘Here’ –
Papatuanuku sighed, ‘Listen’ – stroke and lap, the hush of water rolling back.
The koru comes to mind, unfurling from greened stone, his hands chip
and slide, shaping the edges fondled by tides. See – watered drops
in emerald rock, caught in flux. ‘Here’ – it drapes by her heart;
she smooths the loop, feels – water caressing stone in Fiordland.