Reprinted from The Common Good, No 11, Lent 1999
The Waimakariri and The Hikoi
the walkers from Bluff cross the Waimakariri at dusk,
the sky huge and red, the sun, the rain,
and the nineteen days, burned in their faces,
in their bones
this way of walking hollows out the soul
makes it wide open to the wind and to the sky
the soles of the feet crying into the land
this way of dying to those things that are not important
this walking in trust in prayer
from the tail of the fish to the tongue
from the heel of the waka to the prow
an opening up of the land of the people to the Spirit
everywhere the sound of shoe on gravel on tar on soft dry grass
carrying the pain of the shifting of wealth to a tiny minority
in the space of fifteen slim years
the increase in poverty of so many
unable to afford a doctor, a dentist, the milk, the kids shoes,
the stamp on a letter to a friend in mourning
these are the places where the feet meet the ground and echo
this is the poverty talking, walking, rubbing against the dry, stony parts of the island
carrying the moans of the people upwards and outwards
ringing across the islands
still and clear as mountain air
breaking the silence
the sun
spreading it out like a flame beyond the alps
Kathleen Gallagher