First day of the new year. First walk. First photos.
We walk up and across the almost familiar track to where the clay was dug for kokowai, the blood-ochre for decorating and protecting important places. The air is sticky warm under the gray sky. We climb the sharp ridge and stand where blood was spilt, not gathered. Here, many have met their deaths: this was once a pa and the battlements ran past where our feet are planted high above the surf. In ancient times justice was meted by throwing people from here; and now a bunch of flowers marks another, more recent grief. We look for gannets falling from the sky but see none. Instead, I feel the old sad ones, the fallen, around me. I have no fear of them, nor they of me.
We walk back.
There are wildflowers.
The signs sing.
We walk up and across the almost familiar track to where the clay was dug for kokowai, the blood-ochre for decorating and protecting important places. The air is sticky warm under the gray sky. We climb the sharp ridge and stand where blood was spilt, not gathered. Here, many have met their deaths: this was once a pa and the battlements ran past where our feet are planted high above the surf. In ancient times justice was meted by throwing people from here; and now a bunch of flowers marks another, more recent grief. We look for gannets falling from the sky but see none. Instead, I feel the old sad ones, the fallen, around me. I have no fear of them, nor they of me.
We walk back.
There are wildflowers.
The signs sing.
Comments
Blessings,
Nancy+