The Greenstone Mere Vitrification of ancient woodsmoke words and the green malice of old wrongs in the ashes of misery they left behind Petrification of forgotten tides that washed over the wrecks of past storms and the black depths of old motives Here lies forever embedded the cries of women rising out of sleep to die among charred huts and smoking silences Here the broken body and burning spirit of revenge—the quivering flesh sinking into oblivion among the savage clash of tribes Fossilization of an embryonic land and the stilling of urgent creation is captured within your still form Let us not forget the lament we sang on the seashell shore for Te Maunu or the song of the sad sea itself for Te Kiwi. Frederick C. Parmée

The Garden God Disturbing the plait-work of leaves under the white manuka, I found a garden god. Small dark stone, Polynesian curved. Half-enwombed in the Oaro earth. From stone lips his stone words slipped As Maori as the weed-wash of the sea. I was afraid of him. Afraid of Maori things, So with my foot I kicked him into the disenchanting sun, into a part-reality. He was again over kumara-strips, the small dark stone guarded them in the red of the sun that trailed her after-birth behind Omihi: He, thing of the world of stone, and I of the world of air, were of some strange understanding. And, in love, I gave him to the sea. John W. Wilson