Season of new year

To feast the trapped wood pigeon
feathers tear flesh burns drip
sizzled fat into gourds poured

and stuffed with the kill to keep
seven to our eyes carved piercing
fire in dark cover above our heads

toward embers and weary faces
seven fast burning stars announce
predict no crust of ice or flood

will crush bodies game or crop
mark this rest on the first moon
solid it shines and down we sing

dance chant rant on through
dark-time I lost my mother
the last first moon water drops

smooth crevices across my face
wash the dirt to mud for kumara
dug by our sons next Matariki.

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