When this bruised medallion, the moon,
I thought how solitude
allows what human kind cannot,
openness to this hill whose eucalypts
are my hands,
which has seen me drown.
I float up
through these leaves, my skin
breathing this blue again;
hangs round my neck,
under me men move to harvest
or lie against a golden stook
eating black bread
drinking red wine.
The moon is the pupil of my eye
I go as far as the blue hill goes
I flow like a river in the dark.
from Going On (McIndoe, 1985), © Michael Jackson 1985, used by permission of the author. Recording from the Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive 2004.