My water-polished,
greenstone land, remains an uncut gem
that's set within
a ring of fire: the vast Pacific's hem.
The legendary
giants who caroused and shook this earth,
lie dormant under
grassy cloaks now spread across their girth.
These titans sprawl,
unconscious, all curvaceous; long limbs fanned
in glorious,
abandoned grace: soft, rolling hills. My land.
A sleeper stirs,
a hillside moves, some years, a cloak is torn,
or restless dreamers
rouse and stretch volcanoes in a yawn.
Will languor always
linger, or will ogres seal our fate?
My water-cradled,
greenstone land is slumbering. I'll wait.
New Zealand: land of
earthquakes and volcanoes, jade ('greenstone') and rolling, grassy hills.
