Poem – David Eggleton
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 Line. The world is divided between Moa and the rest. Moa, you are not valued much in Pig Island, though it admires your walking parody, and poor saps poeming to the trees imitate your malady. Moa’s a good keen citizen, very earnestly digging in puggy clay at the bottom of the garden for a worm. Moa cracked a word to
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Tagged with: Issue 122
, Winter 2018
Posted in Poem