Foreshore

High tide draws his salt touch along my reach.
Soft sea-foam ebbs on my shallow roots, as
my feathered punga green rolls out to catch
his rolling glassy wetness on my shore.

Smooth stone tumbles underneath his belly.
His seaweed chest reflects my kowhai eye,
as coral hard his hands grip deep to push
against his moon drawn twisting sandy depths.

The nikau rises tall her leaves my crown
as pohutakawa red blows in gusts,
pale ngaio breath extends a soft petal.
I wrap my watered stems against his thighs

of salt washed wood, his sister river's gift.
She tumbles them down mountain creek and stream
that he might pace along his water's edge.
Salt tide overcomes my soil rooted limbs.

My ngaio petal fast curls brown and limp.
My nikau crown shivers as she draws up
the salty broth that seeps next to her roots.
And he rewards with tide and sand a kiss,

the luna brackish dance of squall and storm.
When you walk on his shell flecked shore mind me -
My toe-toe feather flags whipping the wind
That skips and picks up misty veils of light.

Soon the silvered disk of arching weight
will draw again his salt touch in to me.