James Walton- Poetry
Rap, rap, rap, rap, ill tidings call
It came like rain on windows
a specimen in a jar,
the lid too tight for breathing.
I fumbled through the program
how those Austrians can dance,
but it was only distraction.
Among the seals from Kaikoura
the black sand of carbon footprints,
your South Island smile.
Brushing your hair at the station
how it fell fell fell fell,
my hands these brittle things.
Only yesterday I cleaned the drawers
the orange oil won’t let go,
sorting through the ones to send you.