Poem 321

A sort of companion piece to my Hell’s Gate poem (Poem 13) … diametrically opposed to the topography of Hell’s Gate this is about the lushness of growth from volcanic mud, how quickly Te Wairoa blossomed again from blasted moonscape to tranquil greenness … it was always a prosperous village, first as accommodation for tourists visiting the Pink and White Terraces then ironically (after the eruption) as the tourist attraction itself … so my impression of it as a kid and even now is that the very air is somehow bountiful …

Buried Village

The mud was wealthy
it grew the poplar fenceposts
into crayon-yellow trees
it mulched rather than buried
turned the village under
                                                  for a green profit

the trenches are cut through fat
that wants to heal
earth walls of the pit-houses slung miles
as hot tar
                    exhale a century of damp
the river arcs a cold voltage
domes bulge under grass
beneath the line of trees the tohunga
was left sealed up for days because
it was all his fault
an old man earthed
                                          in darkness

and here below the tearooms
I was caught up to my elbow in the wishing pool
recouping what it cost me to get in
all you had to do was hold hands
but tourists seeded money through the water
as a matter of course
                                             surprising
it didn't grow too into silver-dollar trees
and copper beeches
                                            to ring like tills
through this thick green quiet
sediment
                    of sunlight