UNCLE

I climbed the hill
pushed through the bracken
pollen rises
on still air
below the bridge
the warbler calls.

‘that's his'
says Boy.
Him.
The wooden arm has gone.
The cross lies drunken
as often he was
— perhaps the night
he fell
tending his eel weir.
Fell into the arms of
Hine-nui-te-po.
Bore him seawards
to tangle in the willow roots.
Ha — so this is you Uncle.
Perhaps next Easter
the fern slashed back
eh.

Eh.
A new cross perhaps
you reckon Boy?

I talk to the air.
He's gone
to wash his hands
and chase the rainbow dragon-flies.

Van Phillips