An art historian explains 
how time began What seemed to be her effortless best. Speaking was her art, the silk purse she grafted from the sow’s ear of discontent, what she found congenial. It’s all about me, she knew, artist…

Return There is an ocean I am always returning to travelling halfway round the world to come home to its long bay I walk along the edges of surf searching for greenstone and pāua shell feel the grit under my…

Moa in the Matukituki Valley: A Cento Mountains crouch like tigers, resentful, and Moa’s seeking eyes grow blind, upstream, wading towards the taniwha. Moa’s a strange bird, old and out of time, driven from the bush by the Main Trunk…

Collisions On her last visit to New Zealand her father took her picture at Makara Beach. She’s smiling, and her hair is being tossed by the wind. I went there once just after a storm had passed. The waves were…

Goodnight It can end like this, you know, your arms round her waist filling the void you’d thought was destined for someone else … but perhaps a coffee will do, you think, or another kiss, another hug, or just a…