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I ngā wā o mua . . .

 

there was a woman who lived in a house with a garden

just before the crossing to my school. There were

ornamental shutters on her windows.  The stems

of her flowers danced on stilts with petals

layered over each other.  No one had flowers

like this lady’s – dancers leaning over her fence

with tutus just the right size for us to ballerina

our fingers.  She would come boiling out of her house

all red in the face. You – children.  Leave my flowers alone.

Her blooms were all warm colours.  Pink, orange,

yellow, peach, white hot.

 

 

 

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