At Onetahuti Pool

i.m. Sylvia Coleman
Beyond the trees
beads of fog on silver sand,
where the sea sings heavy.

But here beneath
the canopy of leaves
I'm indoors with you:

fantails fret overhead, weaving
the air like Japanese dancers
so graceful and haunting

I'm there, at your bedside,
hearing you breathe:
a series of long slow sighs

that draw me in to you
across the world's
wide miles. And because

you were born under the sign
of the fish
and three little fingerlings

—I don't know their names,
inanga, perhaps—
are trapped in this freshwater pool,

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their bellies hot and red with
what is it?—
spawn or roe, or whatever

the words might be
that I would choose to whisper,
if I could, into your failing ear,

to say, of course, that all I know of
the cure for cancer
or removal of tumours

adds up to no more than a wish—
because of this,
I'll do what I can to break

the dark of this forest pool, to set
these startled fish
flickering back to the sea.