Poetry
Plunging
by Jeffrey Paparoa Holman
Dropping down Otira Gorge, rain is my
Powhiri: at one-in-sixteen grade, this
Viaduct’s a plunge of faith. In my mind’s
Eye, I can see a sagacious monk: he
Stands by the rail in his cape of mist, a
Miniature mountain to welcome me on.
The rain drums fingers on my flying car
And in my heart, I’m nearly there: Aickens.
She died on the roadside in seventy-eight.
I used to know the exact spot, but now
It’s like they say: time’s ointment heals, but it’s
Thick, and blurs the screen. In this grey-merging
Green, season-to-season washed by the rain,
I always miss the one I never was.
