Michael Hall

Michael Hall lives in Dunedin. He has had poems published in New Zealand, Australian and Canadian journals.

 


Night

The pigs are bothered.
Even the stars are dark.
One, the fat one, will
Get up,
With some graceful difficulty,
And wander over.
Something, he oinks,
Means them harm.
Out over the paddocks
Past the barn
From a darker scarce
Of trees,
Something calls
For more pork. For
More pork.

 

Throw Stones at Poems

You don’t always have
To keep them in sight –
They are not like drones.

Nor do you have to keep them
Away from airports.
Bring a small book of them

And while you sit waiting
For your boarding call,
Watch one lift and hover

About the concourse gates,
Ignored by all, except
The security officer who scans

Them blandly through.
Or staring at the sea of tarmac
Watch one fan the hair

Of the man in high-vis gear,
Standing, waiting with orange batons.
Or if still bored, hum one new

From the sky-cloud-blue hilled horizon
Then watch it come in and nearly hit
The flight to Wellington, just now
… missed.