i tipped at the water, the clay placid
the duck-egg blue of wet country
no pipes to rust
the drip of ripe dirt, the drip
of the earth beneath soft and solid
that dream-fall feeling 

in the trees we nursed another feeling
in the acid twist of placid
storm waters where the waterlip turns solid
the blood-metal red of crusting country
the cracks where you can feel it drip
we kissed the lichens with our rust

the lichens shivered, leaking that rust
and your hands moved to feeling
gathered water on my shoulder to pearls, they drip
down my side along the placid
grey of skirt linen becoming country
the ground beneath me soft and solid 

those words we whispered too were solid
i touched my fingers to their rust
on the paper they made their own country
newness was the feeling
the weathers at my sternum were not placid
in my chest there was a drip

not like pipes but like chasms drip
the rock seemed less solid
placid like duck-egg clay is placid
shedding like how stars rust
that was the feeling
the tender shed across country

we whispered, let’s never leave this country
and time passed like a drip
of water on to stone, it was the feeling
that all things are soft like rocks, and solid
feelings linger like rust
on a still day all water might be placid

when i have feeling to return to my own country
my body still, the way floods are placid, my bones mid-drip
these words are solid, my finger pads are daubed in their rust



Kahu Kutia is a writer, storyteller, artist and all round professional haututū from Te Urewera/Ngāi Tūhoe. When not working, you’ll find her talking to the tuna that live behind her garden shed.