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Flight of the Bosunbird



Pure light has a plumage.


The communal white feathered body of


The Radiant One


as if, in a dream,

flies backwards into love.


You wear a breastplate of pink satin —

an armour for

the tempest of the heart.


Like your namesake —




you can no longer

hold the horses in the sky.


So — light of all light, like the distant life of 

so many small suns — you






Black masked, red billed, of fragile wing

you fall —

plunge diving into the ocean of


The Sacred Always. 


Then softly you rise. As if, in a dream.


The released reins are the horizon 

behind Norfolk.


This beatific vision —


the red tail streaming above me

is the avian marlin spike

where the 


spirit of the Manu 

guides the Bosun’s hand —


to the intangible rope

that moors our hearts to the shore.


The cord that binds wing to arm — feather

to hand — eye to eye — cradle to nest — song to breath.


The journey between your soul and mine.


Innocence has an honour to bestow.

A knot to untie.


Just as ari 'i vahine do not walk,

but fly —

so you must land by flying into the wind.


So fall. Ethereal One. Then softly you will rise.


Where we are all free.


As if, in a dream.

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