I need these trees
Which reach down beneath the bones in the garden
And hold something steadier than the dip of twilight
I crave their rough and honest skin
Questioned by relentless Wellington weather
Answering in gentle unyielding bends
I need something
On which to pin my insides
Unfurled in all their flagging strength
To bravely wave when Northerlie rage
And rip at the ragged ends of me
I need a thought
Not my own crumpled creation
One whose breath reaches back to lost Gardens
And bids muck and dust to rise
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