There's a fucked orchestra of twittering
Like a whisper in the cabin before you even see
New Zealand. It comes clear,
Thousands of native birds raking their lungs
To applaud the countryside. A bandwidth beneath,
Cattle are preaching at the top of their voices,
Sheep are mooing, crickets' legs are sparking
Like lawnmowers & a multitude of car-horns
Are bleating their satisfaction hoarse.
As you approach the terminal the din belches
Through the fuselage, rolls like foam
Through the intercom, & the whiff, the stench
Of New Zealand plays an accompaniment pollutant
Into the air-conditioning. Even the cities reek
Of diesel & sheepshit, sheepshit and diesel.
The seagulls are gagging in it,
The hedgehogs are pulling disgusted faces,
Planes are crashing into screaming shop-owners,
Dog-walkers & joggers to avoid the smell.
But in the belly of your chairback,
In the dizziness of your wine, one noise pervades
It all, the ticking & scratching of a single pen.
There's a man at a desk scratching out list after list,
Scratching things down in immaculate order,
Immaculate rows of cleanliness, only stopping,
To scratch his pen against his temple
& Prick his ears to hear other lists scratching,
Mooing and screaming to be written.
Locals are blue with indignation
& Speak of justice breaking
Over their knees,
Their voices breaking
The camera's eyepiece blurs with tears
As the pans South.
In this nocturnal limbo,
Beak to beak with
Kiwibirds & tailfans, the accused
Holds her larynx in one hand.
She feels it buzz as she utters
The words she has stolen &
The nation above her bleat their sighs
To sound the tragedy of
This Foreigner - so finely featured &
Endearingly spoken -
To steal in one ill-thought moment
the language of her hosts.
Her words echo until the island is
Simply a million words,
Cold, but momentarily familiar,
As thousands wake from their sleep
With thick pores & sheepish smiles.