The Rata

The hills flame red, clear red, all up the valley long
And bleak, through rain and mist that mix about their tops—
The sullen day broods rain—the river-bed's hard stones
Move treacherous to our tread; the dark bush clings and drops
From summit by green cliffs to the wet valley's floor.
Mile after mile we plod, rain-compassed; plunging now
Into the bouldered river, rock to ice-cold rock.
Rain falls; the air is water; presently we lunge
Through undergrowth spraying water, clinging wet, and feel
The river running fast again. Still flames that red.
Not universal water nor the mist that floats
Heavy about the heights can lay that waste and dead.
The fire leaps point to point, and on a jutting cliff
Is furious, and here a fallen flame is bright
Even in the water, laying its length along the stones.
I never saw the valley look like this, this light
Was never mine before, though well I know this stream.
It is the rata, which upon these hills breaks now
In million-blooming fires rain does not quench or smoke;
Flame runs along and up the hill-side, bough to bough.
Looking at this, I feel this valley's beauty stark
As ever before, but never before so glorious, keen
And piercing, never before has my heart leapt within
My breast, nor so long stood to see the new unseen.
Is it the rata? Eyes know, but the spirit doubts.
And now, deep throated bell, a sudden tui sings.
Is it the rata, or breaking once to the air
The fire that burns unbidden in the heart of things?

—J. C. B.