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UNCLE I climbed the hill pushed through the bracken pollen rises on still air below the bridge the warbler calls. ‘that's his' says Boy. Him. The wooden arm has gone. The cross lies drunken as often he was — perhaps the night he fell tending his eel weir. Fell into the arms of Hine-nui-te-po. Bore him seawards to tangle in the willow roots. Ha — so this is you Uncle. Perhaps next Easter the fern slashed back eh. Eh. A new cross perhaps you reckon Boy? I talk to the air. He's gone to wash his hands and chase the rainbow dragon-flies. Van Phillips

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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/TAH197506.2.10.2

Bibliographic details

Te Ao Hou, June 1975, Page 29

Word Count
102

UNCLE Te Ao Hou, June 1975, Page 29

UNCLE Te Ao Hou, June 1975, Page 29