Shieling

A ruined shieling on Dumyat.
In the crannies of a lichen freckled
wall he’ll leave this Talisker bottle,
drained of its furious gold.

Inside he’ll roll a letter to a hiker
sixty years from this spot,
instructions on how to live better
than he does now, his utilitarian lungs.
Emptiness isn't only for bottles.

There will be an old iron key
somehwere in the cold hearth, 
hidden by ferns. It can unlock
a door unhinged for a century now.  

A century from now, a hillwalker
will see neat slate and reekie lum
and the glow of a better fire inside.
And a door cut from the woods
that knows to keep the haunted wind
out and what matters safe inside.

Émigré

To die here, on Waiheke Island
with sight of the South Pacific
and the Hauraki in my old hair,
is my life’s wish.

I’ve come a long way
from gas-lit brick terraces
on Wordsworth Street.
I do not want to go back there.

I do not want to go back there.
Three generations of my making
belong here like the myrtle tree
that crimsons our grasslands.

Wrap me up in an old carpet
and bundle me into a pick-up.
Ignore the laws about burial.
I will fertilise the ribbonwood.

At the wake, I want bagpipes
and mariachi horns. Floods
of beer, rivers of wine. Singing,
dancing, laughing, love-making.

At night, on the beach I want
all my children to name new stars.
I’ve come a long way
from the Methodist hut
on Wordsworth Street.