For three nights now I have dreamed of you.
The storm that smashed the trees and sent mud
roiling downhill at Lone Kauri Road
has passed on, but here you are, puzzled,
inquiring, like a reverse portent.
The tides suck at the black rocks as they
do, but the waves are yellow with clay.
In the city, the officials are
busy with their response plan. Meanwhile
you have turned up, old and alone, just
as though you were not already dead.
Your fame is assured for a thousand
years, or ten thousand, but what comfort
does that give a dead poet, returned
to wander the ruined hillside, like
a cloud passing in front of the sun.