My water-polished, greenstone land, remains an uncut gem
that’s set within a ring of fire: the vast Pacific’s hem.
The legendary giants who caroused and shook this earth,
lie dormant under grassy cloaks now spread across their girth.
These titans sprawl, unconscious, all curvaceous; long limbs fanned
in glorious, abandoned grace: soft, rolling hills. My land.
A sleeper stirs, a hillside moves, some years, a cloak is torn,
or restless dreamers rouse and stretch volcanoes in a yawn.
Will languor always linger, or will ogres seal our fate?
My water-cradled, greenstone land is slumbering. I’ll wait.
New Zealand: land of earthquakes and volcanoes, jade (‘greenstone’) and rolling, grassy hills.