Wind blows thin through trees, through grass far past
a sea whipped white. Beneath its tilt, the ocean slips
within the harbour arms. Roof peaks, chimneys, windows,
gates serrate the hills in notches, gashes, bits. Be still,
in solitude and come away within the circle of the sun.
Through an open door from a Rimu staircase, sunlight draws
a gilded glow; from columns beneath the railing, an amber shadow.
Past orchard and meadow, sand hills slide toward a glittering sea.
Along the peninsula, olive groves rise in terraces, the last step, gold.
The Elder, a managing director, arrives in his black Peugeot.
He sits on the facing bench to oversee the gathered few,
who listen in silence to the Spirit’s prompting ‘…for now
is Christ risen.’ Briefest of phrases ring from concrete walls, washed by the sea. Winter light falls on the coffin’s dowelled
dovetailed oblivion. The managing director gazes in silence,
clasps, unclasps his hands; he presses the knuckles white.