Writing in Whangarei

Eclogue for a Global Market

by Aaron Robertson

We rise, hydraulically assisted,
in trees still wet with evening’s last
embrace. Dutifully caged, this slow
mechanical ballet begins
to reap its due, an autumn front
premised on independent wheels.

Such rituals repeat from smoko
to smoko, the protracted drone
of four-stroke music soiling time,
while blades unseen amongst the leaves
furnish perhaps the only blood
to propitiate these falling fruit.

Is Rongo in his newest mantle
driven before our blind advance,
exhorting those who lag behind,
or is this symptom of a modern
mystery shorn of every sense
of place and weary of its veil?

In labyrinths of rising ground
days disappear, hidden from view
by makeshift altars ranked on trailer
beds, as these offerings at once
bestowed are hastily dismissed
to feed the lesser gods that wait.


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