Mercedes Webb-Pullman
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Polar drift
We flew south, as far south as possible
over virgin paper snow, time’s blank
to a region where every point leads north
and peering through obscurity
in that eternity between Oh and Look!
a three-headed dog appeared;
all the snakes of his perfect tail
undulated, synchronised
like filaments of a sea anemone
harvesting food from the ocean
or women’s arms, on the home marae
waving us welcome.
