This one human
feels the warming of the sun
this one human
knows the cold sleet of battle
this one human
breathes deep of the sweetest air
this one human
takes the life of another,
denies it sun and sleet and breath.
If this life,
held in the palm of our
trembling hands,
held as the highest ideal
above all gods.
philosophies and creeds,
is not sacred
then nothing is sacred.
Let the killing begin.
In your country you kill homosexuals
Jews, Kurds, Yazidis
and other inconvenient minorities;
In NZ we kill our babies,
a simple procedure,
a matter of convenience.
How quickly the words are lost
that are not gathered to the page
when first they emerge
from the forming mist.
shades of silver
creep over these years of loss,
dark clouds of grief
disperse slowly,
a mix of shadow and light.
a lamb,
battered on a hillside,
wearied by time
and expectations unmet,
wants to believe
in approaching footsteps.
Beside the grave
a mound of earth
a rose,
a thorn,
a child unborn,
by such guile
we are entombed
in the emptiness
of that lost smile.
In Monte Cecilia Park,
across this broad sweep of lawn,
under this tree, beside this stone,
the ashes of your spirit remain.
And although I do not come here often,
I carry those ashes with me,
in my back pocket,
where ever I go.
Sweet peace to the child
soft in the womb
safe in the arms of love
secure in the knowledge
that even a sparrow
is a bird like a dove.
A white moon in a blue sky
recognised in an innocent eye,
one takes the life of another
fall to the fire, fall to the rain
who be the child and who be the mother?