Light gathers
(for Topsy Wi)
I went to your grandmother’s house
on summer mornings when green‑gold pods of light gathered
in the grass and the blue gum trees whistled in tune
to our voices. You sat on the whare step
with your blue‑black
braid hanging straight
to your waist. Life
is real, you said, your cinnamon
eyes gleaming, sometimes hard
and fell silent, neither of us
knowing then the outsiders’ language of pain,
only rage
and the schoolyard fist.
I came one August day
to reclaim you from the past; no victim
here, as, arm in arm, we walked each hospital corridor, you
naming and named as blessed
among your patients,
a woman who had found
her place.
We travelled the winding road
to home, the house
of the beloved ones
children
mokopuna/Te Kao/land
of forebears, following
red dust to the Cape
where spirits leave, the sea
as dark as irises. Do not speak
yet of death you said,
but when I would
you said, to know God
is to know the mystery
and so we turned
from Reinga to ride
into the falling dark.
I came to you one last time
hurrying empty‑handed from the south
on a morning when high summer spun its shining
net again, stopped at the school
where you’d sat with bended head
sitting beside your coffin
I touched the tumultuous hair
caught in its black and golden
band, placed my fingers
upon your lips. I do not
think you dead, I said.
Aue Topsy, farewell.
Topsy Wi (nee Witihera) was one of five women to whom Palm Prints was dedicated. She nursed at Kaitaia Hospital, and was part of the Piki Te Ora Maori Health Workers Group, until her sudden death on 20 January 1995. Her tangi was at Potahi Marae, Te Kao.