Sprung from the trunk of a treefern,
a backbone curves against the sky.
It was the same then, early morning
under manuka, the slab secured
between branches, a smoke-house
dangling on rope. The knife paused
in my father’s hand, muscling
his arm, and the trout swimming
in light. How we love certainty
and uncertainty, but most of all
we love hope – shouldering in,
waiting for the small red fat heart
to be flicked out on the tip
of a black-handled bloodied knife.