The Land, Always The Land

He has come out with a stick
It is carved beech with a bone handle
Paua* eyes shine along its length
This is my neighbour
His frame is weak, racked
with arthritis and its friend,
pain
He calls across the valley
“Got your spuds in yet?’’
This is what it comes to:
He could talk on the wisdom
of protecting Hormuz,
or how to make money (and keep it);
could mention those who watch him struggle
But it comes back to the land
“Not yet – but soon,” I say.
He shuffles forward, the paua glinting
“Don’t leave it too long, or I’ll have mine ready first.’’
He turns and I see the back of a raised hand


*Paua shell, or the shell of the abalone