The Land

I belong here. To this land. I was conceived not fall off in a similar valley. I grew up marvelling at her beauty.

And I marvel still - sing her praises every sunset, every morning. The birds herald the dawn, the magpies call the light in - as I pee on citrus - my homage to this Dionysian god - this whenua ataahua.

What a gift to wake here - to dream here - to stand here, kill my animals and grow our garden, here.

Here is where home is, is where my heart is. I feel her brooding darkness and heft as I pull off the motorway each evening, as I drive myself and my children towards her easterly ridges - her green mantle of safety and wild un-safety.

I know myself here, and I lose myself. Men, wander in bush, suprised by the moonlight. Here on this land we dance - we call to the old ones and reckon with our own demons.

There is nothing this land cannot hold, cannot bear. It bore my winter sorrow last year - it will bear fresh fruit and vegetables even with my peasant touch. Her soils keep giving, her winds keep the tree barks fresh from disease, and her majesty…

Opens my heart and wakes up my soul.

Oh whenua, oh whenua, you hold me, break me, stun me into silence.

This wild and warm, this cold and bleak - this soil and health, this utterly human and more than human space in time.