Wednesday, December 14, 2016

market in matakana

On Saturdays, the roads to Matakana
are longer from where we live.
Cars congeal on the highway
79 kilometres become 81
or at times 82, especially when the heavens
discern there is not much need
for too much sun on earth:
This Saturday it rains
the winding concretes and asphalts
slick like nautilus chambers.
The roads to Matakana are lined
with trees, bursts of shrubberies,
foliage dense the light behind them
could be the evading eyes
of the gods we have forgotten to pray to
for warmer days and other necessities:
food on the table, a good laugh,
or stronger legs. But we persist
the way a public toilet in Matakana
took seven years to complete,
how it resembles the hull of a boat
with sentinel profiles facing each other
connected by a singular stare
in obedience to the eternity
of their questions:
“Where will you go?”
“How far will you go?”
The rains come and go.
 The roads to Matakana have several ends
but like many other roads before this,
we prefer one that ends
adequately like the road to the market
where honey from bees that lived
in cliffside cages are sold,
also wine made of feijoas
borne from silvereyes of the south
and blackbirds of the north.
We search for old trinkets and vases
fit for blooms of the summer
but the sign by the berry stall
says Vintage Market Every Sunday.
But it is a Saturday,
as if we need reminding again
of the chances we have missed
and the length of the roads we have taken
when there are many others yet to take.
Like the moments before this,
there is no forgetting
the lengths we go to.

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