Writing in Whangarei

Kotare

Hooded watchman mocking my late arrival,
Statuesque, you play the apparent mute, sat
Fast on pagan stoas of post and wire frame
Wrapped in the half-light.

Tell me, how has history left you less than
Sacred, Grecian pedigree overlooked for
Crueller lines, your plumage unfit to join the
Caucus of chief’s cloaks?

Do the favoured, sensing the zeitgeist, choose a
Hand through which to parley, or is the muse’s
Song an echo, haunting a young Narcissus
Flush with his own voice?

That your mortal beauty is witnessed by this
Cynic’s eye is likely no consolation
For seductive fantasies fixed like pylons
Flaunting a king’s might.

-Aaron Robertson

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