PAUA TIDE by John Hovell John Hovell, a teacher at Coromandel D.H.S., is part-Maori, of mixed Ngapuhi and Ngati Whanaunga extraction. I remember I remember At the Paua tide, How we went down from the road To the flax bound beach. The women sat on the high white rocks Sat and talked together; And over their knees their dresses stretched Dark and smooth in the empty air, Sat on the sun warmed rocks Watching the men. Once or twice in the year Only, does this reluctant tide Uncover in this way Her last, secret fringe, Watches the capture of her store, The feeling, wrenching, and bearing away; In this single hour, least hidden And seldom exposed; Men grab at her Making the most of their time. Reach out you artful fingers That trouble the edge of the rock, Like the anemone's soft threads Feeling, feeling. Can you find the curved shape, the hiding place Of the humping prey that clings and waits Blue in the shade of the boulder? Wedge the sharp knife. Twist the point. Lift to the light and the sun The rivelling mouth. The imperceptible afternoon slide Off our backs, as we Worked the rocks between us; And behind us the sea weeds closed, The anemone put out her stamens, The starfish uncurled, and the water Stilled again in a perfect pool. Then suddenly the sea breathed in. The women, rising, shook out their dresses, And the men came together up the beach. I remember I remember How folds of talk and laughter Flagged down to the squatting bay. Look back now, over your shoulder; Sometimes we sense the sea's keenness Reckoning each item of depredation. Only, in the smile of the women is the threat Forgotten. And the wind And stone and water sing An idle warning in the ears, To homeward company.